Candy Shop: The Two Mrs Grissoms
by CSI Clue
Summary: The Pros and Cons of Mothers and Art.
1. Chapter 1

The Two Mrs. Grissoms

The Gallery was full, with voices echoing through the rooms; various groups moved about, studying the Masters and gossiping, while the faint notes of a pastoral played under their conversations. Track lighting showcased various pieces on various walls; bored guards moved slowly through rooms, more intent on coffee breaks than crime.

Just another day on the second floor of the Las Vegas Center for the Arts.

A young woman sat on a minimalist stone bench in a far room of the exhibits. She wore a pants suit of taupe, with ropes of garnets around her slim neck, and the brown velvet patchwork handbag at her side would have paid the tuition for most junior colleges in the United States. She wore her blonde hair in a short pageboy, and her cat's eye glasses were tinted a light shade of amber.

Sara sat staring at the painting, keeping her gaze on it as the recorded tour droned in her earpiece. _"Painting number 129, Aldo Battaglia's 'Two Shepherds on the Hills of Verona', undated, but generally assumed to have been painted about 1433 when Battaglia was under the patronage of the Duke of Milan. This pastoral scene depicts a pair of shepherds and their flock. Verona is faintly visible in the background, but it is the magnificent brushwork through the skies that give this piece a startling depth and richness . . . _

The tape droned on, touting the magnificence of the Renaissance piece, its provenance, discussing its theft in the early Seventies, and its eventual recovery, ending with a two-minute segment of praise for this latest generous philanthropic gift from Mr. Bruce Eiger, recent electee to the Board of the Las Vegas Center for the Arts. When it was done, Sara clicked the rented cassette player off and pulled the earpiece out, feeling slightly nauseous.

The thought that Eiger had any generosity in his character was unbelievable and highly suspect—a view shared by several people not only in Las Vegas, but elsewhere. Currently the FBI, Interpol and ARCA were interested in _Two Shepherds on the Hills of Verona, _but Eiger's bill of purchase seemed solid, and the painting itself wasn't listed on the Art Loss Register. The only person protesting the provenance was a woman that the media had charmingly dubbed 'eccentric' and 'an unreliable source.'

However, Miss Lollipop was convinced that Mrs. 'Duse Machina not only had a valid claim to the painting, but also deserved it back. The fact that to do so meant taking it from Bruce Eiger was an added pleasure, and nearly everyone at the Shop wanted in on the case. In the end, Miss Lollipop had given it to Miss Chocolate, allowing her to run it and pull what resources she saw fit.

That was when the trouble started.

Sara was about to rise when she noticed the man moving quietly behind the two nuns along the side wall. The sisters were studying a reclining male nude with more interest than they probably should have, and Sara smirked when the man coughed to get their attention. The younger nun blushed, but the man spoke softly, and indicated the picture, his body language reflecting an easy familiarity with sharing art information. She watched him for a moment longer, then slipped out of the room and over to an exhibit of Inca masks in the next little gallery section.

A few minutes later, she smelled his cologne—Cheval Noir-- before he spoke; without turning around, Sara murmured, "Dapper as always."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, my dear," came the man's soft British accent. "I simply didn't want the good Sisters to miss out on the exquisite play of light and shadow along the pleats of the bedclothes in that painting. It's too often overlooked for the charms of the youth reclining."

"You're a rogue and a show-off and a flirt, but you're also brilliant, so I'll let it go this time," Sara told him in an undertone. "Were you followed?"

"Of course not!" The man shifted closer and turned to look at her. "What sort of an amateur do you take me for, Sara?"

She risked a glance at him, and the tender exasperation she always felt around him welled up. "You're no amateur, Uncle Alex, but it only takes one slip---"

He winked at her. Sir Alexander De Montavallo was indeed the very epitome of dapper; a small, bright-eyed man with a well groomed white goatee and wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a grey suit, impeccably cut, and leaned on a cane with a silver lion's head on the top as he pretended to more closely examine one of the jade and gold masks hanging at eye level on the white wall. "—A slip I'll never make, dear girl. Still aboard the _Bohemian_?"

He asked in an indulgent tone that told Sara he already knew the answer, and his self-assurance made her exasperation flare a bit more. She tightened her grip on her handbag and moved away a few steps, to a stone jar with a sacrifice scene carved on the front of it. "You know I am—still on the National Trust's 'unofficial' list?"

"But of course—" Alex murmured with a sour little smile. "No one gives a brilliant forger an unlimited second chance, least of all the humiliated parties. But on the bright side, I've been on the inside of several interesting . . . adventures. Undercover officer at seven o'clock my dear. We'd best move along---"

So saying he checked his watch and strode away; the very picture of a man slightly late for some urgent appointment. Sara lingered a while, then made her way out of the Inca exhibit and towards the gift shop, sighing.

Even now, she wasn't sure bringing Alex in was a good idea, and it galled her to think that he might cause . . . problems. Sara walked over to a little table where a man in a docent's smock stood with a handful of stuffed bunnies was trying to arrange them into some sort of a stack. One went bouncing off the table and landed in front of Sara's leopard skin Astrabellas.

The Docent bent to pick it up, and gently stroked the plushie rabbit up against her ankle before straightening up. Sara shivered and managed a discreet smile at Mr. Peppermint.

God he looked adorable in his geekiest glasses; a heavy pair of horn rims she called his Nutty Professor specs. He'd put a few Band-Aids on his fingers, he'd let his hair get a little flyaway and his Salvador Dali tie was crooked; Sara wanted nothing more than to drag him off to some storage closet and go for a standing quickie right then and there.

"You're sexy as hell," she purred, amused to see him actually blush. He clutched the stuffed rabbit convulsively.

"I have a bunny and I'm not afraid to use it—" he warned her in a sotto voice.

She fought a smirk. "Bring it on—I'll show you ways to use a plushie that I bet you never even thought of, Boy Genius."

"Okay we have to stop. Not only am I having perverted and impure thoughts now, but the manager is about to some over," Mr. Peppermint warned her in a whisper. In a louder voice he added, "May I help you, Miss?"

"Yes, I'd like to see what you have in your shorts—and tee-shirts," Sara commented impishly. Mr. Peppermint shot her a warning glance, and then managed a smile as he led her over to a display against one wall, gesturing to several open cubbies with neatly folded clothing in them.

"Right here—all sizes of course---" he told her brightly. Sara brushed past him, her fingers discreetly groping with unerring accuracy under his docent smock. Mr. Peppermint half-turned, biting his lower lip for a second in self-control. "You are eeeeeevil, Frango."

"My middle name, actually. I changed it from Bunny," she whispered, and pulled out a pair of boxers from a cubby, shaking them open to reveal the logo _'I (Art) Las Vegas'_ across the fly, with the smaller caption underneath, _"Wanna come to my opening?"_

"Tasteful," she murmured, holding the boxers high. "What size are you again?"

"Buy those for me and I'll strangle you with them," Mr. Peppermint warned. "My underwear promotes no causes but my own."

"Maybe I should change that—" Sara teased, and cleared her throat as another man came forward. He was a whip-thin, overly fastidious man at least three inches shorter than Sara, and clearly possessed of the same temperament as a cranky Pomeranian. He looked at Mr. Peppermint, who cowed and blinked.

"Is there a problem, Eugene?" he demanded sharply.

"N-no, Mister Hamm. I was just assisting the patron here—" Mr. Peppermint quavered, his voice trembling. Sara felt a quick urge to defend him, and mentally rolled her eyes at her instant response—he was so good at getting into character—

"Ma'am, if there's anything I can do to make your shopping experience here today at the Las Vegas Center for the Arts gift shop a better one, please let me know," Mr. Hamm told her unctuously, then shot a warning glare at Mr. Peppermint before striding off.

Sara watched him go. "Tell me, what does he drive, darling?"

"A grey Maxima with the National Public Radio bumper sticker," Mr. Peppermint sighed, "Why?"

"Oh goodie. He's going to have four flat tires this afternoon."

Mr. Peppermint shot her a look of pure love. "You'd do that for me?"

"That and more, my nebbish snookums. See you after work. Bring a bunny—" Sara told him indulgently, and sailed out of the gift shop.

000oo00oo00

Licorice looked up from the Documents Room as Jelly Bean sailed in, looking exceedingly good in a collarless pale blue dress shirt and sharkskin suit of gunmetal grey. Seeing Licorice's grin, Jelly Bean spun, modeling it and smiling. "Just off the David Phillips line of Candy Shop Men's wear. One of a kind, baby!"

Licorice set down the passport he was creating and gave a slow round of applause. "Sharp, buddy, very nice---you look ready for a night on the town with Frank, Sammy and Dino."

Jelly Bean preened a little, stroking the shiny lapel. "Yeah, it's a classic, I agree. Just a small thank you from David for getting him the gig here."

"Yo, that was a happy accident, dude—if you hadn't gotten all amnesiatic and forced us to go find you it wouldn't have happened in the first place, Greg." Licorice reminded him, his smile turning a little wry. "And I don't think Nick's going to forgive you for the Moon Glow just yet."

Jelly Bean's face fell. "Look, I'm sorry about that, okay? Learned my lesson, yadda, yadda, yadda, and it's never going to happen again. I didn't know that stuff was going to mindwipe me for three days."

"Yeah," Licorice nodded, a small smirk flashing out. "Could have happened to anyone, right?"

"Well not just anyone," Jelly Bean acknowledged. "But let's face it—we refine that formula down, and the Shop will have a legit source of income for decades!"

"Try selling that line to Sugar Daddy—I don't think the big shark's gonna bite," Licorice shook his head, and then changed the subject, "Hey, you working with Sara on the art heist?"

"Not unless I get called in," Jelly Bean sighed. "Miss Lollipop's making me and Mike Teevee give Ms. Willows and David Phillips orientation to the Shop."

"Good. Might keep you outta trouble," Licorice chided, "At least for a while."

"It's a good thing I'm not going to take that personally," Jelly Bean grumbled, then sauntered over to the table and looked down. "Whatcha doing?"

"Passport. I've only got one alternate ID, so I thought I'd get another one done while I'm between cases. Never know when it will come in handy."

Jelly Bean nodded, "Yeah. I've got two—Grant Sawyer and Gary Simmons. Did you know that Grissom's got, like, eight?"

Licorice nodded, bending over the document again. "Yep. Of course, he had a couple before he even joined the Shop, or so I've heard. Never quite had the courage to ask, you know?"

Jelly Bean nodded. Just then the alarm on his Rolex went off, and he grinned. "That's my cue—Shop class is about to start. Catch you later—" And with that he slipped out again, leaving Licorice to his delicate drafting.

00oo00oo00

Grissom rode up the elevator in the back of the Book Hive, feeling a sense of anticipation that tingled through his lower stomach in a delightful way. Upon returning from his menial undercover job at the Art Center, he'd closed up the bookstore, sending William and Maynard home, and now wondered if Miss Chocolate was already upstairs or on her way. He hadn't seen her car on the street, but she was adept at keeping the Miata out of sight, and she DID have a key to the loft . . .

The elevator stopped and he stepped out, looking around carefully, feeling a bit like Calvin, anticipating an ambush by Hobbes---

It came swiftly, from the left side of the elevator. Two quick steps, a hop, and Grissom found himself pinned against the brick wall, a letter opener against his throat. Miss Chocolate was still in her blonde wig and sunglasses; she flashed a dangerous grin at him. "Hel-lo, Eugene---"

"M-Mrs. Robinson—" he replied in a breathless little voice. She now wore her ropes of garnets over her black lace camisole, and her garter belt had black velvet roses on it. Grissom felt himself rise to the occasion and moaned softly.

"Such a darling boy . . . ready to model your boxers for me, dear?" Sara cooed ruthlessly. "I'm SO into the Arts, you know."

"Ma'am . . . I . . . I . . . " he murmured, trying to pull his neck away from the glittering point of the letter opener. "Could you put the um . . . blade down, please?"

"Certainly, darling—" Miss Chocolate purred, sliding the tool under his Dali tie to slice off the buttons from his shirt in quick little flicks. The buttons rattled as they hit the wooden floor and rolled away. Grissom swallowed when she brought the point of it to his thigh and lightly stroked it along his Sansabelt slacks. "I don't bite . . . unless you absolutely need a nip or two—"

He carefully reached into his pocket and pulled out a stuffed bunny. Miss Chocolate glanced down at it, and her smile grew more sweetly predatory, if that was at all possible. "F-for you," he whispered. The point of the letter opener was now lazily stroking the thick ridge of his erection through the cloth, teasing it.

"Oh you sweet, sweet boy! You remembered! Now what can I do to reward that sort of attention to detail?" Miss Chocolate shifted closer, pressing her long, garter-covered thighs against his. "Eugene, really, you deserve something . . . very nice----"

"A . . . handshake?" Grissom offered with innocent desperation. She was so damned good at drawing out the tease, and he was throbbing now, nose filled with the scent of Emerald Fire and warm, bare woman. If she wasn't careful, he'd . . . God, he was going to . . .

"Oh honey, I think we can do better than that," Miss Chocolate gloated huskily, and pulled his arms up over his head, against the brick wall. With force and accuracy, she crossed his wrists and jammed the letter opener through both his cuffs, into the mortar between the bricks, pinning him there. The movement made his shirt open, and Grissom stood there, his garish Salvador Dali tie hanging over his bared chest, blinking through his nerd glasses at Miss Chocolate. He was pinned, both physically and emotionally, and for a long moment all he could do was quiver.

God he loved this woman. She was insane at times of course, but---

Miss Chocolate licked her lips and pressed herself against him. "Ever play a game called Bunny Kisses, Eugene?"

"N-no," he stammered, this time for real. Miss Chocolate gave a lusciously naughty giggle, and took the little stuffed rabbit from him. It wore a small bow tie and had a slightly lopsided expression. She shifted it from hand to hand, then kissed its nose.

"Oh it's a fun game, Eugene. Bunny here tells me where to . . . kiss you. And I do. If you want me to stop though, you have to say, "Bunny, kiss my—and name a new place."

Grissom blinked again, feeling his pulse jump a bit. Miss Chocolate was leaning against him, one long leg sliding around his thigh, grinding just enough to make him want to pant. If he yanked hard he could free his hands, but this was so damned tantalizing . . . .

"I . . . like games," he confessed in a thick whisper, and Miss Chocolate nodded knowingly.

"So let's . . . play. Bunny says—" Miss Chocolate made the stuffed rabbit whisper in her ear, then turned its face to Grissom. "—You want a kiss on the corner of your mouth."

She moved to put action to the location, pressing her lips just at the outer corner of his lips on the right side, her tongue lapping delicately. Grissom groaned and turned his head, but she anticipated his move and shifted herself, keeping the contact light, and just at the corner. He put up with it for a moment longer, then rasped out, "Bunny . . . kiss my mouth."

Miss Chocolate gave a moan of approval and cupped the back of his head, her lips sliding over his eagerly, tongue slick and hot, lapping against his in long, sensual strokes that echoed wetly in the loft. Grissom felt his trapped erection rock against her pelvis, grinding hard in delicious response. He wasn't going to last if this kept going, not if she kept rolling her hips in that slow, snake-like way—

"B-Bunny says you want a kiss down your chest—" Miss Chocolate gasped, and began to lick her way down the side of his throat, nipping at his tie and moving to the broad expanse of his bare pectorals. Her sunglasses fell off. A hard wet nibble on each of his nipples from her, and Grissom was ready to yank his arms free of the wall, game be damned. He groaned, arching as Miss Chocolate unzipped his fly and shoved his slacks and boxers down.

"Oh hell—" she giggled, and threw the stuffed rabbit aside. Flexing, she braced one knee alongside Grissom's hip and reached down, gripping his turgid shaft, stroking it until it throbbed. "—Just DO me, Eugene!"

"Uhnnnggghh—" was all Grissom could manage as Miss Chocolate shifted her hips and guided him into the tight, hot cleft between her thighs. She clutched his hips, pulling him deeper, her breathy groan against his cheek as he sank deeper, filling her completely.

They moved, finding the perfect syncopation after the first few strokes, and the sweet building grind of slick flesh had them both groaning. Miss Chocolate shifted her grip to his shoulders and looked down, watching the thrusting between their bodies and licking her lips. "Oh Jesus, so fucking h-h-hot, gonna commmmme—" she wailed softly, and arched, forcing her hips forward against him. Grissom yanked his arms; the letter opener clattered off and away as he roughly gripped Miss Chocolate's ass and thrust harder, throbbing and pulsing, locking her hips to his as they both shuddered.

After a few minutes, Miss Chocolate half-fell against him; Grissom sagged back against the wall, breathing in gasps, sweat trickling down his forehead, his grin a sweet and naughty expression as he rolled them both, pinning her against the bricks. "Ohhh Mrs. Robinson. I like the Bunny Kisses . . . ."

She laughed, weakly, and tipped her head back, pulling the blonde wig off, tossing it aside. "Mmmmm, I like it too, Eugene. Good thing Mr. Hamm doesn't know how naughty you are on your off-hours---"

Grissom was about to make some reply when the doorbell rang. Startled, he pushed himself off of the wall and staggered over to the window overlooking Ojai Street, trying to pull his slacks up as he did so. Miss Chocolate managed a few steps over to the bedroom area of the loft and flopped down face-first on the big bed, sighing happily.

Grissom yelped. "God. It's my mother!"


	2. Chapter 2

Catherine Willows looked at the man across from her at the conference table and gave him a little reassuring smile; he looked nervous, and at the same time, gentle.

Both of them were waiting for orientation, she knew. Nobody else had shown up yet, but there was a big screen against one wall, and lots of other chairs around the table. She smiled at the man. "Hi. I'm Catherine Willows."

The man looked a little startled that she'd spoken to him, but smiled back, showing dimples. "Hi. I'm David Phillips."

"So . . . " she continued, hoping to combat her own nervousness by talking a little, "I guess we're both in the same boat, huh?"

He nervously pushed up his glasses by the nosepiece and nodded. "Looks that way. I've never worked for . . . a private company before."

"Oh I think they're a little more than that," Catherine murmured with a wry grin. Across the table, David nodded solemnly.

"True." He didn't get to say anything more though; a figure stepped through the door, stride loose, confident and eye-catching. Jelly Bean beamed, almost strutting in, a pair of dossiers under one arm, and a steel briefcase in his other hand.

"Morning and welcome to the Shop. For the moment, my name is Jelly Bean, and I'm here to give you the history, mission statement, protocols and day-to-day functions of our little organization. Both of you have had extensive background checks, right down to your toenails, so as soon as my colleague gets here, we can get rolling."

So saying, he moved to the front of the table, set down the attaché and popped it open. Fishing inside, he pulled out two badges on lanyards and lightly tossed one each to David and Catherine. "Temp IDs so when we go on the walking tour you can get into various areas. Press your right thumbprint on the back and sign the front, please."

Catherine was just finishing her last name when another figure came through the door. "Am I late? I thought we were starting at five," Mike TeeVee murmured as he came over to the front of the room.

Jelly Bean gave a shrug. "No set time I guess. Just gave them their passes and was about to do the Power Point—unless you want to do it, being the tech expert and all."

"A slide show hardly counts as high tech," Mike grumbled, shooting a little peek at Catherine as he did so. She barely refrained from winking. He took the remote that Jelly Bean handed to him and clicked it; behind him, the screen lit up.

_Mission Statement_

_Our common purpose at the Candy Shop is to serve justice and correct wrongs that have been overlooked or perpetrated by society at large. Each of us understands that goal clearly. To that end, we each make a personal promise to attend our therapy sessions, to accept our limitations, break no society or Shop laws, protect our fellow team members and carry out our missions to the best of our abilities and talents_.

"Very . . . noble," Catherine observed, resting her chin in her hand. "Gives it all an air of legitimacy."

"It's a unifying code, and one we take seriously," Jelly Bean intoned, his expression suddenly grave. "While there isn't a lot we hold sacred around here Ms.Willows, this basic premise is one of them." His tone was mild, but his words held weight; Catherine blinked, and looked to Mike TeeVee, who was equally stone-faced.

She murmured a soft apology; Jelly Bean regained his sunny expression of a moment before, waving a dismissive hand. "Anyway, it also allows us an amazing degree of latitude in regard to what cases we take on, and how we achieve our objectives. We've done everything from returning confiscated property to carrying out assassinations, all above and below the machinations of society."

"Assassinations?" David Phillips blanched. Mike TeeVee looked at him and spoke in a low, gravelly voice.

"Oh yeah. Remember the serial rapist in Georgia? The one who had his case thrown out for mishandled evidence, who then posted a blog announcing he was going to write a book outlining exactly, and I quote, 'how to commit his sort of luscious crime, unquote?"

"He died of a heart attack—there were witnesses; an autopsy," Catherine commented. Mike shook his head, his expression cynical.

"He did, but it was chemically induced—believe me, we debated that one long and hard before the Shop voted to do it. We don't just go vigilante around here on a whim, Catherine. "

She kept her gaze level, her expression a mix of memory and stubbornness. "I know that. Believe me."

"Who . . . " David began softly, then paused. The other three looked at him and he continued, "Who funds you? I mean—the building, the budgets—none of this is cheap, especially in this town."

"Valid question, Mr. Phillips," Jelly Bean smiled, "Have a twinkie—" So saying, he gave a flick of his wrist and tossed a little cellophane wrapped package towards the man. David flinched a little, but caught it, his face slightly red.

Catherine grinned. "Cool; positive reinforcement." She turned to look at Jelly Bean. "Got any fruit roll-ups?"

"If you're a good student," Jelly Bean smirked, and nodded at Mike, who thumbed the remote. Another slide lit up.

"The answer to your question, Mr. Phillips is—everybody."

The slide on the screen was a splashy graphic with a stylized tree of seven branches, all of them connecting to a trunk that read CANDY SHOP in bright pink letters.

000ooo000

"Your mom?" Sara echoed incredulously, rising up on the bed on all fours, and presenting such a distractingly sexy image, that Grissom had to fight back a growl before speaking up in a low, urgent tone. He moved away from the window and hurriedly pulled up his pants.

"My mother, yes. And I'm not about to introduce the two of you under these circumstances, nooooo. So come on, we're going to plan B, pronto—" He strode to the bed and reached for Sara's wrist, tugging it.

She scrambled after him. "Wait! I don't even have my skirt!"

"Can't wait—mom's got a key and she moves damned quick for an old lady," Grissom confessed. "Oh, and she's deaf."

"Hard of hearing, you mean?" Sara chuffed, trying to find her other high heel. Grissom scooped up the bunny and tossed it away, then jabbed the elevator button repeatedly, his Morse code of controlled panic apparent.

"No, deaf. No hearing at all. In her case it means she's got great eyesight and a nose like a bloodhound . . . damn it---"

Sara was hustled into the cage of the elevator, Grissom herding her like a corgi with a recalcitrant mare. "Soooo here's what we do—you'll go down to the basement and wait there while I see what mom wants and get rid of her as quickly but nicely as I can. Then I take you out to dinner for being one hell of a good sport."

"Wait, wait--you wantme to hang around in your icy spy lair in nothing but a garter belt while you have tea and cookies with mom upstairs?" Sara griped with a disbelieving snort.

"Yep." Grissom told her absently over his shoulder. "I'm hopping out here on the bookstore level, so press the down button while I block you from view."

"Are you . . . ashamed of me? Of us?" Sara asked as the cage stopped. Grissom spun, and in a quick caress cupped her face, kissing her forehead, nose and lips in quick succession.

"Never. Now hide."

"I—" She didn't get to finish; the sound of the bell over the door of the shop tinkled loudly, the chimes carrying through the empty bookstore. Grissom clumsily stepped out of the cage, trying to smooth his hair down, his button-less shirt hanging limply around his torso.

Staring at his back, Sara was torn between giggling, or kicking his ass, cute as it was. Instead, she viciously jabbed the elevator button and sulked as it slowly dropped down into the basement, creaking slightly.

Drawing a quick breath, Grissom lifted his cleft chin high and tried to smile as his mother stepped inside the shop and eyed him askance. Her gaze took him in from the top of his head to his sneaker-clad feet, noting the gaping shirt and general dishevelment.

Her hands moved. //Did I wake you?//

Grissom shook his head, shifting slightly sideways in embarrassment. //Ah, yeah. Snagged my shirt on the elevator handle and lost a button or two—no big deal. So, what brings you here, Mom?// he signed, his big hands moving fluidly.

His mother gave a slight roll of her eyes. //You were going shopping with me, remember? My postponed birthday?//

Grissom's fingers moved in a way that made his mother wince. //Crap. Sorry, I completely forgot! I thought we were meeting on Thursday!//

//Gil, it's Thursday. Do I need to buy you a calendar?//

He shook his head impatiently, chagrin and affection in his glance as he fought the urge to look over his shoulder to assure himself that Sara truly was out of sight. His mother signed to him once again. //All right, let's go upstairs and get you another shirt and we can get going.//

Helpless for a second; that first precious second when he might have taken control, Grissom felt his mother move past him towards the elevator. She looked up at him, her nose wrinkling. //Maybe you ought to shower, too, dear—you're a bit ripe.//

Sara looked around the basement, crossing her arms against the chill. The subterranean lair of Mr. Peppermint looked much as it had before; slightly disorganized but full, with knickknacks and toys and high tech tools everywhere. She wandered in, and spotted a wooden standing coat rack; from it she nabbed a sweater. It was a cream-colored nubbly button down job and she wondered if it had been a gift from his mother even as she slipped it on.

There was no mirror anywhere nearby, but Sara had a good idea of what she looked like: a tousled sex kitten in Mr. Rogers' uniform. Disconsolately, she pushed the big sleeves up, smelling the hint of her lover along the collar of the sweater. A second later she heard the elevator rumble; alarmed, she froze, but it was going up.

"Mrrrrr?" A brush of weight and warmth against her shin made her look down; one of the cats was making friendly by brushing up against her, so she squatted and returned the favor with a long petting stroke. Appreciative, the cat arched, and a rumble rolled out of his broad chest. He looked very well-fed.

"I'm not sure which one you are," Sara murmured, "but it looks like we're here for a while."

The cat blinked up at her, and circled her stocking feet again, anxious for more petting. Sara hefted him up, grinning at the effort it took, and carried him with her over to the nearest chair, settling in.

She thought about Grissom's mother in idle curiosity. Sara had seen photos of the woman up in the loft, most notably the one in the frame in the kitchen. Olivia Grissom had been beaming, her hands holding a trophy inscribed "Indian Springs Garden of the Year 1999." Her smile was infectious, and Sara could see where Grissom got his dimples and bright blue eyes every time she looked at it.

He mentioned his mother once in a while too; Sara heard the exasperation and concern for her; the fears and fondness and frustration. More than once Grissom had run errands for her, and bought new paperbacks as well. Sara understood and even admired that sort of ongoing connection.

Grissom was a good son.

But at the moment—she sighed. At the moment what she really wanted was to be curled up around him under the sheets, slumbering until food or sunrise roused her. Unfortunately, she agreed with Grissom about the current circumstances—meeting the parent of your significant other while semi-naked and post-coital wasn't the best first impression to make.

She heard the elevator again, and realized it was rising further up; to the loft. Sara bit her lips, wondering exactly where she'd left her panties.

00oo00

The little statue was beautifully carved; a prime example of early Mali art, and Alex's fingers itched to touch it. The sandstone would be cool; the weight of it a joy to the palm, but he knew better. Not only were there cameras discreetly hidden in the ceiling and along the doorframes, but also guards and time locks and several other traps designed to keep the treasures safe.

He circled around it, and shifted his gaze to another carving, letting his thoughts wander too.

The Battaglia. It wouldn't be simple, not the way it had been back in the Seventies and Eighties. Back in those days it was just a matter of making impressions of keys, and figuring out where the fuse boxes were. Maybe bribing a cleaning lady or two. Lifting a pretty even from a place as prestigious the Louvre was possible, and most galleries in the Third World were little more than open shops where a smart thief could waltz in and help himself.

The good old days.

Now though, things were complicated by technology, or so the Bright Young Experts would have you believe. Their faith in their surveillance and state of the art laser barricades was laughably amusing, and the prices they charged for their services were outrageous. Alex had spent a good deal of time with the others at the National Trust's private think tank—codename Barabbas—considering security. It was his job to think of things that the others missed.

It was a good career, respectable and certainly needed, but now and again Alex missed the thrill of the dark side, and the temptation to dabble was always there. He knew he couldn't do anything in England of course, but here in the States, away from anyone who might recognize him . . . And then the call had come from dear Sara, and that set the whole thing in motion, beautifully.

So here he was, strolling through a nice gallery, assessing and debating and having a bit of fun in theoretical possibilities that with a little careful planning might easily turn into realities.

After all, he had always loved to collect beautiful things.

His cell phone rang; the lilting _Men of Harlech_ chimed out and he answered it, shifting his gaze from the ceremonial plate he'd been studying. "Hello?"

"You still coming for dinner?" the voice growled.

Alex smiled to himself and turned away from the exhibit, seeking a more private spot for the conversation. "Certainly. What did you have in mind? A good curry perhaps, or a spot of fish? It's your city after all—"

"Steak," came Bruce Eiger's low grunt. "You Limeys eat that, right?"

"Er, right," Alex replied, wincing a little. "Beef is rather our national dish."

"Whatever. Watson's in about an hour." The phone clicked off, and Alex stared at it a moment before re-pocketing it, and the fleeting worry about deals with the devil crossed his mind as he turned for the exit of the gallery.


	3. Chapter 3

"So this . . . institution is funded by everyone?" David murmured, unable to get over the surprise.

Jelly Bean nodded, and moved around the conference table in a slow stroll as he spoke. "Looks that way—we get the bulk of it from private donations and sources since we're considered a non-profit organization for tax purposes; we've got a trickle that comes in grants from the federal government at the local level under the DOH since the majority of our employees are former federal employees with mental health issues. Another chunk of our funding comes from rewards for recovered property or captured felons, Some comes from charities that we've helped in the past, and some of it is from investments made from our original philanthropic source. All together, it makes for a smooth-flowing organization."

"Impressive," Catherine had to admit. "And I've been around some serious money-movers in my time. You must have some terrific accountants."

"We do," Jelly Bean murmured, "Big time. In any case, we're doing all right when it comes to affording the best, and considering we're never out of work, I think we're in it for the long haul. But . . . it comes at a price. A pretty steep one at times."

"Secrecy," David offered in the little pause. Everyone looked at him and he smiled uncertainly back, but Mike TeeVee was the first to nod.

"Keep this up and you'll have the whole box of Twinkies, Mr. Phillips. Exactly. The Candy Shop is above all else, a covert establishment, designed to stay out of the public view. That means that those of us who work here have to make certain sacrifices to keep it that way."

"Such as?" Catherine asked quickly. The two men shot each other quick looks; Mike Teevee shrugged.

"A false identity and a cover life, for one. All of us have secret identities that we maintain. Mine's running an electronics shop in DC. Jelly Bean here is a copy machine repairman, and Mr. Peppermint runs a bookstore. All mundane jobs that don't require anyone to supervise us or hold us accountable for our time."

"Do you really repair copiers?" David Phillips asked Jelly Bean, who gave a modest shrug.

"Yep. Took a six week course and read the manual updates that the various companies send out, so I'm legit."

"Do we . . . get to pick our own?" Catherine murmured.

"Sure—we'll give you an aptitude test and see what sorts of careers you'd be suited for that also fit our criteria. I'm pretty sure you'd do well in catering," Mike TeeVee told her. "But that comes later, after you've had your chip implanted and your government files altered—"

"Whoa, back up the truck there, buddy—chip implanted?" Catherine balked. "Nobody said anything about keeping track of my migratory habits."

"True—but then again, not a lot of people get offered the chance to work with us, so it's balanced out by the risk. For what we ask of you—and believe me, the chip is a small issue—we do pay handsomely, and not just in monetary benefits," Mike TeeVee intoned softly. "Still—if you want to take a chance that your body will be lost and your daughter will never know what happened to you—"

"No. Ohhh no, you don't threaten me with my daughter," Catherine growled, her shoulders tensing. "She is out of this, completely, you understand?"

"What makes you think that the rest of us don't have people in our lives that we're protecting?" Jelly Bean shot back. "Loved ones of our own? Don't think you're the only one who's got family in the shadows, Ms Willows. I love my grandparents every bit as much as you do your daughter. There is no way I can ever tell them about what I do, and at the same time, there's no other job in the world that makes me feel as if I'm making a difference. The loss of a little personal freedom for their sake is something I'm willing to do."

He turned away from Catherine and caught Mike TeeVee's cynical look, not daring to make a face at the other man; the back of his neck still itched from the newly implanted chip.

00oo00oo00

Sara studied the computer screen intently. She'd hacked Mr. Peppermint's code (much too easy—she'd chide him later about changing his password) and was currently looking at his financial records for the Book Hive. It was mildly interesting to see how he'd struggled to keep it on the barest margin of survival, and how since Maynard had been managing it, the profit margin had risen to nearly double.

It had been over an hour since she'd heard the elevator come down and the door to the shop rattle close. When she'd tried to summon the elevator down, nothing had happened. The power for it was off.

Clearly Mr. Peppermint had gone.

With his mother.

Leaving her, Sara, locked up and alone in the basement.

This Would Not Do, she decided quietly. She appreciated how he'd stood up to Miss Lollipop and The Shop on behalf of their love—that was the recent gesture in her mind that kept her anger from getting too hot—but honestly, this was ridiculous.

She reached down and petted the cat, who remained a warm, heavy, boneless lump in her lap. "I think it's time to blow this popsicle stand, fellah."

Reluctantly Sara lifted the cat from her lap and deposited him on the tabletop; he stretched his legs out, flexing his toes and looking slightly grumpy at being shifted. Sara gave him one last pet as she flicked the computer off and rose from her chair. "No fussing from you."

Sara looked over at the half-open closet on the other side of the room. Earlier another cat had peeked out from it and disappeared again, giving her a suspicious look.

She made her way over and pulled the door open. There were stairs. Two flights later, and Sara was pushing her way through Mr. Peppermint's shirts as she stepped out from his bedroom closet and into the loft.

The room had been . . . straightened. Not completely tidied, but little touches here and there that told her that someone else of feminine nature had smoothed the coverlet and picked up a few dishes. Sara growled a little and set about finding something to wear.

The trip to Mesa Mall loomed bleakly for Grissom, and he fought the urge to check the clock every few minutes. Part of him wanted to call Sara; explain everything; but he knew she didn't have a phone on her.

No, she didn't have much of anything on her at the moment but sleek, smooth skin and perfume . . .

Not a helpful thought, especially with his mother sitting next to him in the car, smiling brightly.

He hated himself at the moment, with a dark, melancholy streak. Miss Chocolate was going to kill him—if she ever spoke to him again. Grissom imagined her coming back to the Book Hive with a flame thrower and gleefully burning it down, laughing throatily as she did so.

Damn it, that was an arousing image, not helped by the little item in his pocket at the moment. He turned the car into the parking lot and found a space; parked and climbed out.

Still sort of hard.

_Hard not to be when you have your girlfriend's tiny black thong in your front pocket, scooped up from your mother's sight and stuffed away at the last minute_, he groaned to himself. _A silky little nothing that's been pressed up against your version of paradise---_

//Do we need to get dinner first? You look sort of glazed, Gil--//

//Sorry. Thinking about . . . fire insurance.//

//Oh yes, more of that would be wise,// his mother signed rapidly. She took his arm and looked up at him, her eyes searching his face as they strode together into the mall.

It wasn't crowded, but there were enough people milling about to make it interesting to navigate around the place. Grissom looped his arm through his mothers and tried to hurry her along, but she kept resisting and stopping to look in the shop windows. As if she had all the time in the world, he fretted.

Trying to relax, he stuck his hands in his pockets, and instantly regretted it.

Warm silk slid under his fingertips, conjuring up images of Miss Chocolate in full, throaty, glistening Naughty Mode, and his body responded to that siren call blatantly, right there in the middle of Mesa Mall.

Sweating, Grissom yanked his hand out and tugged on his jacket, trying to look nonchalant, a maneuver made all the more difficult by the aged mother on one arm and the Titan missile along his inseam. He dredged his mind for countering images, flicking through memories of decomps; a summer mucking out cattle stalls; particularly gross assignments with his uncle Herb, the plumber---

//Gil, you're awfully warm. Are you feeling all right?// his mother asked after waving in his face to catch his attention. He gave her a smile, and watched her flinch at his sickly expression.

//I'm fine.//

//Are you sure? Are you getting to bed early enough? Not eating too much chocolate are you?//

That didn't help as vivid, salaciously tinted memories poured into Grissom's head, complete with THX sound system enhanced moans and sweet, sweet cries.

He could never have enough chocolate, damn it. Bed, table, front seat of the car, elevator, every berth on the _Bohemian_—Grissom had goals now, and those were only a few of the locations he'd wanted to conquer her on---

_I've officially become a total pervert_, Grissom realized dizzily. On the heels of that thought came another one. _How did I get so lucky?_

//I've got it under control. So where are we coming, er, going?// Grissom signed back, his fingers fumbling a bit. His mother looked at him for a moment longer, her suspicion and concern clear, then pointed to a shop a little further up the main walkway.

Grissom blinked at the name_: For the Birds. _His mother beamed.

//I found just the perfect piece for that far corner of the garden, Gil! Wait until you SEE it!// she tugged on his sleeve, urging him forward towards the shop.

It was a crowded little place, with bird houses and sun catchers and hummingbird feeders hanging from the ceiling, and little plaster displays of gnomes, spinners, garden signs, stones, and hedge borders everywhere. Grissom noted that although the items ranged from classic to kitsch, the prices were in one range: high. He shot his mother a suspicious look, thoughts of Miss Chocolate temporarily banished.

//Mom?//

The shopkeeper, a round little woman with her hair in a scraggly bun, beamed. "Oh yes, the lady who wanted the birdbath!"

Olivia nodded, and pointed to an object that was on the far side of the shop. Grissom blinked a little, startled by the unexpected beauty of the thing, and stepped closer to examine it.

The column of the birdbath was a fluted Greek column of white and gray marble, supporting a wide basin of matching white and gray marble, polished and sleek. The entire thing was free of any excess ornamentation except for a pair of fourteen inch white marble centaurs, male and female, who stood flank to rump, leaning back over themselves to kiss. The carving was exquisite, showing many lovely details that Grissom noted with a pulse of pleasure. The carver had made the manes flow, and revealed the underlying muscle along the male centaur's body. The female had lean curves and a winsome expression as she kissed her companion, her arms reaching for his shoulders.

"A fairly nice piece if I do say so myself," the shopkeeper noted with pride. "My nephew does them. Anyway, your mother wanted this one, so we set it aside. Like it?"

"It's . . . nice," Grissom admitted, "and I do owe her a birthday present. How much?"

The price the shopkeeper quoted was on par with Miss Chocolate's Astrabellas; Grissom winced a little but nodded gamely. His mother hugged him, and for the next few minutes Grissom felt a rare sense of joy in being able to make her happy.

She asked for so little, he mused, and in truth, he hadn't spent much time with her lately . . .

Which reminded him exactly why again, and Grissom checked his watch. "So—how quickly can you have it delivered?"

The shopkeeper chuckled, as if this was a wonderful joke. "As soon as you pay for it and haul it out of here, sir. We don't do deliveries I'm afraid, although we can wrap it for you."

He grumbled, and fished in his pocket for his wallet.

Wrong pocket. Grissom quickly shifted for the other one.

It didn't take long for Grissom to realize that marble lost a great deal of its charm when the reality of its weight became apparent. Although he wasn't completely out of shape, the effort of carrying a marble birdbath, (estimated weight at about a seventy seven pounds, he guessed) the half mile from the shop to the car was enough to make him sweaty, out of breath, and convinced, dimly, that Miss Chocolate must have had a hand in picking out his mother's birthday gift. It was just her sort of devious punishment, and by the ache in his back, arms and legs, he'd be feeling it for a while.

Matters weren't helped by his mother's concerned signing every few steps, and by the time they made it to the car, Olivia was convinced that her son was on the verge of a heart attack.

//Gil, I'm serious! You need to get more exercise!//

He wanted to sign back that he was lifting weights at the moment, but settled for putting the birdbath in the trunk of the car and wrapping it securely in the blanket he kept there.

//I'm fine. I need to make a call, so why don't you think about where you'd like to go to dinner, and I'll be right with you.//

She nodded, climbing into the car, leaving Grissom to dial his cell phone.

After two rings, the message came on, Miss Chocolate's familiar voice deep in his ear. "Hello, Gilbert. If you've reached this recording, then you're probably aware of how very unhappy I am. At the moment, I'm incommunicado, and will probably be so for a while. I expect you to keep up your part of the Two Shepherds case, but maybe it would be a good idea for us to stick to Emails for the time being. "

"Sara!" Grissom growled helplessly. He glanced through the back window at his mother as the voice in his ear continued.

"It's not a matter of your mother over me; I can live with another woman in your life, Gil. It's locking me in a basement and treating me like an inconvenience instead of a partner that has me a little upset. So go have dinner and you can keep my panties—they may be the only pair you'll be seeing for a while."

The phone recording clicked, and Grissom shut down the connection with nerveless fingers.

He blinked, utterly at a loss for the first time in years.


	4. Chapter 4

Bruce Eiger looked over the table at his guest, and then at the man's plate, annoyed that the dinner had hardly been touched. It was one thing to throw money around to show off, but wasting a perfectly good thirty-five dollar steak galled this shit out of him.

"Eat, already."

The old man smiled at him, and although it was a nice smile, it had a cold glint to it that made Bruce pause. Once the old guy had seen it register, he picked up his fork.

"So. You're interested in forgery," he began in a conversational tone.

Bruce shot him an angry look and then glanced around the restaurant. "Christ! Not so loud!"

"Nobody cares, Mr. Eiger, trust me. I'm not a beautiful young starlet that you're trying to get into bed, so your conversation with me is of no interest to anyone here."

"Even if that's true, I'm not in the mood to broadcast anything, so keep it down," Bruce snapped before shoveling in a mouthful of mashed potato. He swallowed it and looked again at his guest. "But you're right. I am."

"And I would venture to guess that the painting you want a perfect facsimile of would be . . . _Two Shepherds on the Hills of Verona_?" came the quiet question.

"You guess good. Maybe you ought to take that sort of smarts to one of the casinos, Mr. D. Could win yourself a hell of a jackpot if the owners didn't rough you up first."

His guest looked up. "Oh I have, from time to time, although I've avoided the unpleasant backroom conversations for the most part. It's difficult to paint with broken fingers."

Bruce snorted. "No shit. Anyway, yeah. I want a perfect copy of the old Italian I just handed over to the Museum. The way I figure it, they can have the copy and I'll hang on to the real thing—that way I have my investment and philanthropic reputation secure. And if any nosy critic comes along and says the painting's a fake, I'll scream bloody murder, then get the insurance company to pay off, since it was their expert who verified it was real in the first place."

The little old man smiled again, and the cold glint was back. Bruce felt a shiver down his spine and tried to ignore it.

"Rather a win-win situation for you all around then, isn't it, Mr. Eiger?"

"Absolutely. Those are the kind I like best."

"And you're agreeable to my terms then?"

Bruce nodded sullenly. "Yeah, yeah, the works. New ID, Australian citizenship, sheep station in New Zealand. There are easier ways to get out of a bad marriage you know. Ways I could help with."

The smile was back. "I'm sure there are, Mr. Eiger, but I'd prefer to keep my crime at desertion rather than murder."

"Have it your way." Bruce shrugged, and went back to demolishing his potatoes. After several more mouthfuls, he glanced at his guest again. "So how long will it take you to do the painting?"

"A week. It will take another two days or so for it to dry, unless you allow me to use acrylics. I can provide you with a list of everything I need. Some of it might be . . . pricey," the old man murmured with a little genuine regret. Bruce glanced at the mostly untouched dinner and sighed.

"_Two Shepherds_ is appraised at three million, Mr. D. As long as you keep whatever you need under twenty thou, I can handle it, along with your . . . demands. All I ask is that you get done before the end of the month, when the annual audit happens and we can get the painting swapped out."

"Very good. And to insure that both of us are aboveboard, Mr. Eiger, I've taken the precaution of recording our conversation here at dinner and having it electronically transcribed to my laptop, which is in a very safe location. Here is my list of requirements and an address where you may ship them as well. Once I have the supplies, I'll contact you with a schedule."

Bruce glared as the older man reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of good vellum, passing it to him with a smile. "You were clean—" he complained, "You let my man scan you!"

The old man nodded benignly. "True. However, I did arrive here earlier than you and wired the flowers . . . among other things."

After a moment, Bruce gave a bark of a laugh, grudging admiration in it. "You got balls, Mr. D—I'll give you that."

"I simply refuse to underestimate you, Mr. Eiger. I've lived a long time and intend to continue living—preferably in New Zealand once this is all over," The older man smiled, and this time his expression was slightly melancholy.

000ooo000ooo000

Sara stood on the shore and hit the remote for the Bohemian; the lights went on, and the tiny flicker of the security system reassured her. Carefully she got back into her Miata and drove off to the north, taking her time. She was sure that Grissom wasn't around . . . yet . . . and she didn't want to have him find her for a while.

And he would tried to find her, Sara knew. This change to his comfort zone was bound to shake him up. It was shaking HER up, and to put off thinking about that, she drove on, reaching the little bed and breakfast within a half an hour.

The modest Spanish ranch house—Jardin de la Flor, according to the sign on the gate--stood on the outskirts of town, surrounded by low hills, charming and quiet. Sara pulled in the long driveway and passed the main house, moving down the road that curved around it, and heading for one of the bungalows in the back.

There were two of them, and a large barn on the grounds between them; Sara parked and got out, looking around. The lights on both bungalows were out, but the ones at the barn were on, so she stepped to the door and fished out keys from a ring in her purse. Once inside, Sara looked around, relaxing a little. The smell of gesso, oil paint and turpentine filled the spacious area, as did the physical clutter of canvases, drop cloths, tables full of palettes, crumpled tubes of paint and all the effluvia of art, on a grand scale.

Sara cleared her throat and called out, "Uncle Alex?"

"Here, Sara my sweet---" came the preoccupied response from deeper in the barn.

She wandered over and found Alex in an old, paint-stained sweater and jeans, his hands working over a well-lit canvas in front of him. Under his brush, a lovely street scene emerged; a rainy day at some Paris marché with the bleeding pinks and purples of the flower seller's stall blending in with the falling drops, and the heavy glints of reflective white along the grey cobblestones painted along the bottom of the picture. Sara whistled, and Alex smiled.

"Faux-Monet style, but I felt the need to work of a bit of anger this evening, and this seemed to be the safest way to do it. Given the number of cameras in the casinos today, it's the better part of valor, don't you agree?"

"In your case, totally. So how's the _Two Shepherds_ coming along?"

"Starting on it tomorrow, " Alex told her as he concentrated on the upper part of the cloudy skies, touching it lightly and effortlessly creating a dappled effect. "I've done the preliminary sketch on the canvas, and need to re-measure them to make sure I'm within a few centimeters or two. Have you found a match for the frame yet?"

Sara stared at the painting, entranced by it as she spoke, slowly. "Still working on it, but I've got a promising lead out of a church restoration center in San Francisco—they've agreed to Fed Ex the samples for you to look at in the next few days—Santiago will sign for them if we're out. How about the, um, special project?"

She blushed as she asked, and Alex shot a sidelong glance at her, tenderly amused. "Second thoughts?"

"No," she countered, "But some . . . difficulties."

"Ah," Alex commented gently. He finished up his work on the underside of the clouds and carried his palette to the sink, staying quiet and waiting for her to speak again. By the time he was cleaning the brushes, the silence had gotten too much for her, and she wandered over, resting one hip against the sink.

"I'm . . . mad at him. He treated me in a way I wasn't expecting—at least not from him and I probably overreacted. So I've told him to stay away for a while," Sara confessed softly.

Alex glanced up. "How did he treat you?" his voice was soft, but the hard steel in his tone made her shake her head quickly.

"No! Nothing like that, don't worry! He's not the type to EVER hit me, geez!"

"So what did he do that got him into your bad graces, Sara, my dear? From what I can tell, the moon and sun both seem to rise out of this young man's . . . eyes," he decided, flashing Sara a quick grin. She returned it, chuckling a little.

"He, um . . . sort of locked me in the basement when his mother came over. Unexpectedly."

"He unexpectedly locked you in, or his mother came over unexpectedly?" Alex asked for clarification, rinsing his hands and drying them on the small towel that Sara handed him. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Came over unexpectedly. Neither of us was quite . . . dressed for a visit, much less a matriarchal one, if you get my drift."

For a moment, Alex said nothing, but his merry smirk made Sara blush all the deeper, and to counter it, she cleared her throat. "Anyway, to make a long and embarrassing story short, I've decided we need some time apart."

"The course of true love never does run smooth, does it? And what am I to do with . . . .?" he drifted off, but waggled his eyebrows.

Sara's expression shifted to something between devious and melancholy; she shrugged. "I'll think of something. Right now, he doesn't deserve it."

000ooo000ooo000

Catherine looked with clear, unmistakable lust at the racks of clothing that stretched back through the long room, and watching her, Mike felt himself stiffen slightly. He'd suspected she'd respond to the Closet this way.

"It's like . . . heaven---" But that was David speaking, not Catherine. Startled, Mike looked over at the man, nothing his glazed expression behind his glasses. Next to him, Jelly Bean grinned.

"Yeah I thought you'd like this place. We have the specs of every casino's uniforms on file, along with the standards for most federal and government ones as well. We've got a few cultural selections too, and some historical stuff, although that doesn't get play too often---" he murmured, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

David moved close to the first dress on the nearest rack; a Waffle World waitress uniform. He ran a knowing hand along the capped sleeve. "This one's out of date—the Waffle World corporation shifted from double-knit poly to a rayon poly blend two years ago because of rashes."

"What?" Catherine asked distractedly, her attention focused on a slinky cocktail dress of green dappled satin. David tapped the waitress uniform once more, this time with more authority.

"The uniform. It was in all the trades, because Waffle World was considering selling the bulk of their wear out to the theater overstock folks. Double-knit traps too much sweat, and the restaurant worker's union filed a complaint on their behalf to get the uniforms changed. So this one's out of date—if you sent someone out in this uniform, the other waitresses would definitely pick up on it."

Jelly Bean was nodding, impressed. "Good to know. We definitely need you in this closet."

"Oh I could be really happy right here," he replied unhesitatingly. He moved to Catherine and took the cocktail dress from her, shaking his head. "Not this one—the cut is for someone about a size nine, A cup. And the color's good on you, but honestly? You'd look better in---"

David pulled out a sleek chiffon dress of tawny brown with gold threads woven in it, and handed it to Catherine, who forgot to pout as she eyed the new creation and purred. "Oooooh! Shoes?"

"Brown velvet Chitanas or Astrabellas, open-toe with a three inch heel," David replied confidently. "Gold earrings, brown velvet hand bag, or if you're going for flash, gold leather clutch."

"Buster, you can pick my wardrobe any day," Catherine announced with a delighted grin. "Even the waitress ones!"

David blushed, but looked enormously pleased; Mike and Jelly Bean grinned at each other.

"Okay, I think we've found your particular vocation, Mr. Phillips," Mike murmured. "You might want to think about your code name—we've got a list of available ones to choose from.

"Hey!" Catherine asked as all four of them moved out of the Closet and back into the hall. "Wanted to ask—how come you're called Mike TeeVee when everyone else around here has a candy-related name?"

"I went by Nonpareil for a couple of years," Mike admitted, "But once I got assigned to the East Coast and took up my secret identity, it was more fitting to link it to that. And Mike TeeVee does relate to candy."

"Why candy?" David asked curiously. They were all walking towards the frosted glass doors now, with Jelly Bean leading the way. He gave a shrug.

"I'm sure there Miss Lollipop would say that are a lot of Freudian implications about regression to childhood and oral fixations, but I think it's mostly because the unifying element is sweetness. We do this job for our own satisfactions, so to speak. Got a name in mind yet, David?"

"Marshmallow, I guess," he murmured, pushing up his glasses by the bridge piece on his nose, "it's as good as any."

"I think it's free, so that's fine," Mike told him, holding open the doors to usher everyone else through. "And you?" he murmured in a lower, flirtatious tone to Catherine.

"I want to be Butterscotch," she told him.

Mike shook his head regretfully, following behind her. "That one's out—killed in the line of duty, so the name was retired."

"Hmmm," Catherine frowned. "Damn."

"On the other hand, I could see you as a Bit 'O Honey," Mike added in a voice meant only for her ears. Catherine blushed, but before she could say anything in reply, the sound of gunfire echoed out. Both she and David looked stunned; Jelly Bean grinned.

"Welcome to the firing range—real bullets, all the time."

000ooo000ooo000

Dinner at Porcini's was slow. Grissom tried to keep up a cheerful demeanor for his mother, who gave up asking him if he was all right and kept him busy answering questions.

//Yes, I am seeing someone, mom. She's . . . // Grissom paused mid-sign, trying to think of how best to express all the incredible, endearing, wonderful things about the naked woman he'd left locked in his basement.

//Smart? Pretty? Loving? Playful? Understanding?// his mother teased, signing quickly. //Gil darling, I'm SO glad for you!//

//All that and more, Mom. Thanks,// Grissom sighed, finally managing a small smile. //She's very special.//

//Good. So when do I get to meet this very special woman?// Olivia pursued//because Maynard says--// she stopped, and Grissom narrowed his eyes at her, debating between outrage and amusement.

//Maynard? Has been talking about . . . me?//

This was not good. Grissom had hoped that hiring the big ex-porn star would give him more time for missions, but if the price was a breach of security . . . . he felt oddly hurt; betrayed. His mother had the grace to look chagrined.

//Only after I plied him with my chocolate sour cream cake with fresh raspberries,// she confessed with dancing fingers. //Fresh from the oven.//

//Ah.// came Grissom's response. //The major artillery.//

//I was desperate. //

//Clearly. But you should have asked me, Mom—I would have told you about Sara—in due time,// Grissom tried to bluff. His mother's response was a familiar arch of an eyebrow and a slightly disbelieving stare.

He relented. //Okay, so maybe my concept of due time is a little longer than most. I wanted to be sure, all right?//

His mother didn't look completely convinced, but she rolled her eyed good-naturedly. //All right, Gil. So where is she now?//

000ooo000ooo000

They wouldn't let him in the delivery room, and it was a relief, to be honest. He loved her, but the last thing he wanted was to be in the way, with everyone working around him and on her.

Still, it hurt too, and while she understood, he felt like crap being apart from her. Out here in the hallway of the Maternity Ward, he could hear the TVs from the other rooms; the soft-voiced pages and conversations and blips while behind the double doors he knew she was . . . .

The doors swung open, and a lanky young doctor leaned out, pulling his surgical mask down to speak, his smile wide. "Mr. Ecklie?"

"Yeah? Mel—she's okay?"

"Just fine. Came through the Caesarian like a trouper, and you're a father now. If you'd like to suit up and come see your son—"

Conrad Ecklie froze for a moment, the impact of the other man's words like a rush of warm air against him.

_Like the backsweep of angels wings_. One of Mel's sayings, he recalled, understanding with perfect clarity what she meant now as he moved to the double doors, pushing them open with trembling hands.

Mel was there, woozy from anesthesia, but smiling, her glossy dark hair damp with sweat, and tucked in her arms lay a small bundle in a flannel blanket, wriggling aimlessly. Conrad moved over, hand reaching out for Mel's forehead. "Hon—"

"Hey, Con. We did it," she whispered, tired but thrilled, her smile so brilliant that Ecklie thought it was brighter than the overhead lights. "Matthew. He's perfect."

"Just like you," Ecklie told her, and bent to kiss her lips.


	5. Chapter 5

She let the phone ring twice, and then picked it up, steeling herself to be cool and gentle. Sara wasn't mad anymore; but at the same time she really needed to make her point. "Hello."

"Hello. Where are you?" he replied, voice soft over the connection.

"I'm here," Sara told him. "Certainly not where you left me."

"I know that too. And I'm sorry, Frango. Sorrier than I've ever been in my life," she heard him murmur. "I want to make it up to you. I know I can't, fully, but may I try?"

Sara closed her eyes. The apology was perfect—sweet, sincere and intimate. All the things it needed to be, and she wanted to forgive him right then and there . . . but the tiniest little flare of doubt and anger still existed deep down inside. She drew in a breath.

"You may. That was a very nice way of saying you're sorry and I appreciated it very much."

"You're welcome. So . . . may I see you?"

"No, I'm afraid not. At least, not until tomorrow when I make another visit to the Center for the Arts. There is going to be a delivery to the On Loan wing, and I'll be there to make sure a few of the pieces are signed for and mounted properly."

Sara could feel the discouraged disappointment in his silence, but when he spoke, it was just as softly as before. "I understand. Fortunately, Eugene is scheduled to work, so I'm sure he'll be by to see the new display."

Sara cleared her throat. "I hope so—he's so very . . . accommodating. And wonderful at following directions."

"He's learning," came the rueful reply, followed by a pause. "Sara—I truly am sorry. After this particular assignment is done, I'd like to take you and my mother to dinner and have the two of you get acquainted. She's very eager to meet you."

"I am too," Sara assured him gently. "She's got a pretty amazing son. And on that note, go and get some sleep, dear, darling Mr. Peppermint. We have a very big baby to put the spank on in the next few days and I need you watching my back."

"I'm always watching your back," came the gentle reply. "Goodnight, my love."

He'd hung up first, Sara realized, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that.

00oo00oo00

Alex got up and checked the clock; it was three in the morning, and dead quiet. Only the wind made any noise, and he dressed quietly, pulling on the paint-stained sweater once more, along with the rest of his clothes. Silently, he left his bungalow and headed for the studio barn, slipping inside and turning on only a single light on the easel, right above the small photograph of _Two Shepherds on the Hills of Verona._

He got to work.

Painting was a natural medium; years of practice had made the process into a beautiful ritual for Alex; he set up his tools and took a moment before the sketched canvas, his eyes closed, visualizing.

For a long moment he concentrated on the long-dead Aldo Battaglia, combining what he knew of the man to what he sensed from the legacy of his paintings. When he was ready, Alex brought brush to palette and then, reverently, to canvas.

He painted.

Outside the studio, time passed. The darkness of night thinned over the hours, and gave way to quiet dawn spilling across the hills of the desert. Golden beams reached the windows, cutting across the floor towards the center of the studio. Alex painted on, his concentration pure and powerful. His strokes danced over the fabric surface, leaving trails of brilliant colors and muted blends. Rising out of the dabs and flicks of his brush came the unforgettable rolling hills of Italy, warm and inviting; the sky over them a brilliant depthless blue between lazy clouds.

By the time Alex De Montevallo set his brushes down and stood back, the masterpiece was done, and he felt a tiny sense of satisfaction with it. There was no pride—the work was beautiful, yes, but it was only a copy of what another had already done, and done far better.

Alex washed his tools carefully, then his hands, and plugged in the coffeemaker. By the time Sara wandered into the barn, yawning, he was on his second cup, his long hands curled around the pottery of the mug to savor the warmth. "Good morning, Sara dear. Sleep well?"

Sara shook her head. "No. I can't believe I'm already—"

"—Missing him?" Alex supplied helpfully, receiving a scowl in return.

Sara poured herself a cup of coffee and sipped it before answering. "Yes. I don't understand. It's not like we've been together that long, really."

"Ah, but you're acclimated. In tune. Simpatico, my dear. This man you love is more than just a body in your bed; he is your comfort, your harbor. Your security blanket," Alex teased gently.

Sara stared into the depths of her coffee, not speaking for a moment. She finally sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, he is. We've spent every night together for the last month or so, and it's not all about the . . . ."

" . . . hot monkey love," Alex murmured, not looking at Sara as he set his cup in the sink. "It's something more, clearly. Ah well, I'm sure you'll both figure it out in due time. I'm going back to my own bed for a few hours, and then we'll see what we can do about setting up the On Loan paintings. They're already loaded in the truck. I shall see you at ten, my dear—" So saying, he leaned over and kissed Sara's temple gently.

She kept staring in her coffee after Alex had left, and after several long minutes, sighed again. "It's hot bunny love," she corrected sadly, words echoing in the empty loft.

00oo00oo00

The face in the mirror was exceptionally woebegone. Grissom had nicked himself shaving, and the little patch of tissue along his jaw line had a red spot on it. His eyes were a bit blood-shot, and dark smudges under them spoke of a restless night.

It didn't help that the only tie he had that was clean enough to wear in his Eugene persona was a polyester monstrosity with little orange nubbles all over it. Grissom winced as he put it on, feeling like he was hosting an exotic mold across his shirt.

He parted his hair on the side, Brylcreemed it in place and sighed to himself. "Showtime," came his monotone as he added the glasses.

It had been a rotten night. Although he sensed Sara wasn't mad at him anymore, the separation was harder than he'd wanted to admit. He'd tossed and turned in bed, all too aware of how empty it felt with just himself in it, and how despite the warmth of the night, he felt a chill that wasn't all a matter of physical senses.

He missed her. The comfort that came from a toasty body next to his, long legs entangling in the sheets; soft little snores in the night.

Grissom pulled into the parking lot of the Las Vegas Center for the Arts and thought about the months past with Sara. Working with her. Learning to trust her. Developing a rapport that morphed into the salacious and tender bond that now existed between them.

_With her, my life is better, even . . . even over bumps like this, _he admitted to himself, and managed a smile; the first that morning.

The smile didn't last. The minute he entered the gift shop, Mr. Hamm swooped down on him, scowly eyes locked onto Grissom's. "Eugene! Where have you been?"

"Driving in to work?" Grissom meekly replied, aware that he was ten minutes early as it was.

Mr. Hamm rolled his eyes impatiently. "Whatever. You're needed over at the Clay Station this morning until Miss Zeng comes in, and after that there's a display going up in the On Loan room. I trust you won't be late for that?"

"No sir," Grissom muttered softly. He shifted direction, then glanced back at his supervisor, trying to look worried. "Mr. Hamm, sir—did they ever find the vandals that deflated your car?"

The thin little man quivered. "No," he breathed grumpily. "Although the parking lot cameras have shown several suspects. Just be thankful that you have an alibi, Eugene Dabbleton. Now get MOVING."

Grissom swallowed his grin and remembered to make his walk deliberately clumsy as he headed out of the gift shop and across the main concourse of the Center. A few other docents nodded to him, and when he stepped into the Art Barn, he picked up one of the paint-spattered aprons there, putting it on.

Several children were already creating projects over at the Clay Station, and one little girl looked up at Grissom when he came around to examine her work. "Very . . . interesting."

"It's a vampire hedgehog eating a cupcake," the girl told him. "Her name's Renata."

'That's . . . a very nice name for a hedgehog," Grissom replied, one eyebrow going up.

"No, the cupcake's name is Renata," the little girl giggled. "The hedgehog is called BoogerTodd."

"I see."

The child shook her head impatiently. "No you don't. But that's okay—it's squishing time—" And she flattened the unfortunate creation with one of the thick wooden rolling pins.

For a moment, Grissom wished he could do the same with Mr. Hamm.

He spent the next ninety minutes circulating around, cleaning up clay messes, listening to the other docents gossiping and keeping watch over the concourse. When a small Asian-American woman came scurrying in, he smiled. She darted over to him, touching his sleeve gently. "Thank you so much for covering, Eugene! I had to take my son in for an ear infection first thing this morning—"

"No problem. Is he okay?"

"Oh he'll be fine, yes, and I can handle things from this point. Thank you again!"

Grissom smiled and pushed up his glasses.

00oo00oo00

The On Loan room was a spacious area with a glass-enclosed front that faced the main concourse of the Center for the Arts. At the moment the glass doors were propped open, and several thin, flat crates were being unloaded from a rolling dolly just outside the doors. The smocked workmen were struggling with a few of the larger pieces, and when one of the doors began to close, Alex reached out to grab it.

"Thanks," one of the workmen grunted at him. Alex nodded and watched as they carried in the box, noting keenly that the young man already inside the room was talking shyly to Sara.

Their body language was slightly awkward, and he smiled softly to himself. "Ah, the paramour," Alex murmured, and re-propped the On Loan room door.

He pulled out the **Caution Wet Floor** sign from his cart, set it down, then began to mop inside the gallery room next door, whistling softly. When he passed _Two Shepherds on the Hills of Verona_, Alex glanced briefly at it, then resumed his cleaning of the polished cement floor, his strokes long and sweeping.

After wringing out the dirty water and remounting the mop on his custodial cart, he got out a squeegee and some window cleaner. Slowly, Alex moved to the glass front of the On Loan room and sprayed a mist up at high as he could reach, then began to squeegee, keeping a casual eye on the activities inside gallery.

The workmen were busy unpacking paintings and hanging them on the walls under Sara's direction while the man with her—the one with the hideous tie and glasses—checked off the art pieces against the manifest on his clipboard. Sara was in a short brown velvet dress, with a choker of brown-tinted pearls, Alex noted, amused at her blonde wig. She looked cool and intimidating as she directed the display.

Alex hummed a little. He was biding his time, cleaning the window as slowly and thoroughly as he could, intent on being there for the moment to come. He knew Sara had spotted him and was doing her best to ignore his presence on the other side of the glass; nevertheless she did glance in his direction once or twice.

One by one the paintings went up: a scene of Sampans at anchor on a moonlight dock; a pair of schoolgirls waiting on the steps of Notre Dame; morning sunlight on a bowl of golden blush peaches; a triptych of cats against an alleyway. All of them familiar to Alex, and each giving him a moment of pride as they went up on the walls.

Then the workmen opened the last box and pulled out the final painting. Faintly Alex heard the man whistle; saw Sara stiffen for a moment. Recovering quickly, she waved the painting to the wall reserved for it, and Alex smirked as he watched the men hoist it up and place it under the track light, adjusting it carefully.

_Composition in Chocolate No. 3. _

Luscious strokes of umber and amber, mahogany and sienna mingling with paler tints of peach and apricot; through them all the arresting vision of the nude siren sprawled playfully on the russet chaise lounge came into clear focus. The sensuality of the piece, from the thick frosting of the paint itself to the smoldering challenge of the subject's gaze had everyone in the On Loan room staring at it.

Alex finished wiping down the window, glad that it was clear and clear so that the crowd now gathering behind him could get a nice look at the art inside. Whistling, he moved to his cart and began to push it along the concourse towards the Mayan Art exhibit, feeling fine.

00oo00oo00

Sara felt her scalp start to sweat under the wig. She kept a smile on her lips even as she felt like swearing, and moved next to Mr. Peppermint, pretending to check his clipboard.

His pulse more like—she noted it was beating at a quickened pace along his neck, just above his collar, and that he looked pale.

Sara purposefully cleared her throat. "Oh yes, _Composition in Chocolate_—that was a last minute addition by Milo. He's such a joker, you know. I didn't realize he was going to put that old thing in with the rest of them."

"That old thing?" Mr. Peppermint squeaked, and Sara didn't think his voice trouble was all an act. She risked a sidelong glance at him, and his eyes were wide behind his dorky glasses.

Sara nodded encouragingly. "It's just a little something I wanted to give away . . . as a present. I didn't know it was going to show up here."

"A present?"

She nearly laughed aloud at how the nerd next to her perked up, his expression softening into something incredibly sweet and dazed. It only lasted a second, and by the next he was all business again, dropping the pencil and nearly stepping on it as he fumbled to pick it up. Beyond the glass, several people were peeking in now, and Sara felt a hot flush along her cheeks. It was one thing to pose in the quiet of a studio for a genius, and quite another to see dozens of interested eyes all over the end result of that afternoon.

"That's . . . a heck of a present, Miss Ghirardelli," he finally breathed at her. Sara caught his eye again for a moment and smiled back, then moved around the walls of the On Loan room, checking all the paintings carefully. All the workmen were gathered around Composition in Chocolate, moving only when she cleared her throat. One of them licked his lips. "Smells like chocolate," he commented.

Sara smirked. "Well of course it does; it was painted with chocolate. Unsweetened of course, but the genuine stuff. Finely ground and sauce forms, mixed in with the various pigments. Very experimental, but the artist felt it would add another . . . seductive . . . dimension to the piece."

"Boy howdy," the workman agreed, nodding. "Sure hope my wife packed a couple of Kit-Kats in my lunch today."

"Well if she didn't, Ted, you can always come back and lick the painting," one of the others commented, and that made all of them laugh.

"I think I'd rather lick the model, mys—"

The man never got to finish; Mr. Peppermint had jabbed him in the solar plexus with the edge of the clipboard, driving all the wind out of his lungs. As he bent forward, trying desperately to breathe, Mr. Peppermint pushed up his glasses and apologized.

"Sorry! I slipped there, sorry, sorry."

"Sssssssssokay," the workman wheezed while his two buddies helped him out of the On Loan room and out to a bench on the concourse.

Sara watched them for a moment, then turned to look at Mr. Peppermint. Behind his geeky glasses gleamed a stubbornly possessive stare. She sighed, and spoke in a soft voice as she took the clipboard from him. "He's lucky you didn't rupture his spleen with a hit like that. Planning on taking out everyone who leers at my portrait?"

Mr. Peppermint lifted his cleft chin and looked out, beyond the glass at the little crowd still on the other side. "A man must do what a man must do."

Sara hid her laugh and began to move away. "Then you're going to need a LOT of clipboards, Eugene."

00oo00oo00

Alex waited until there was a lull in the visitors to the On Loan room before he started to carry out the open and empty crates. He whistled as he loaded them up onto the dolly, and spent time sweeping up the excelsior.

He rolled the unpacked crates over to the room with _Two Shepherds_ and just as he reached it, a security guard wandered in and nodded at him. "You new?"

Alex stuck out his hand after wiping it on his coveralls. "Subbing for Delores," he responded, his voice taking on a southern twang. "Her sister's sick."

The guard relaxed and nodded shaking it. "Damn that's a shame. How long will she be out, do you know?"

Alex shrugged, pulling out a slightly grimy handkerchief and blowing his nose into it before replying. "Dunno. Temp agency just told me to be prepared for a couple of weeks."

The guard gave a sigh and shifted, preparing to wander back out again. He paused and looked back at Alex. "What did you say your name was?"

Alex smiled. "Hank. Hank Pettigrew."


	6. Chapter 6

As the last patrons were gently ushered to the exits, and the darkness of the Las Vegas night beyond the glass windows twinkled with casino lights and traffic, Grissom sighed. It had been a long day, made longer to his way of thinking by the steady stream of visitors into the On Loan display.

He wasn't sure how to deal with the emotions that fluctuated within him every time he looked over at the painting just beyond the glass; there were so many, and they mingled at times, leaving him on edge and distracted. Jealousy. Possessiveness. Pride. Desire. Melancholy. Admiration. All of the above in varying amounts coursing through him at any given point of the day.

Grissom knew only two things for certain, and the lesser one was that _Composition in Chocolate No. 3_ was going to be his, to hang over his bed in the loft. It would look wonderful there, if only as a minor tribute to the magnificent woman who had modeled for it.

He tensed. One of the other annoying issues that had bothered him all day concerned the logistics of _Composition in Chocolate No. 3. _Grissom hadn't had a single opportunity to ask for details, and Miss Chocolate hadn't volunteered any as she sauntered off to look over the press releases and media bytes for the exhibition. It bothered Grissom that someone—some artist named Milo—had seen her naked. Not only seen her naked, but translated, transformed, and transcended the physical beauty of her body into a masterpiece on canvas.

Grissom felt a keen envy in that man's vision, and talent. Still, the jolt of pleasure _Composition in Chocolate_ gave him every time he glanced at it was a lovely sensation, even if it was one he had to share with every other attendee at the Center. He made it a point to pass by the display on a periodic basis, taking a vicarious delight in the constant attention the painting drew.

He hoped Miss Chocolate had done well in her part of the deception, which had taken place up in the Center offices, probably in the company of the board of directors, which unfortunately included Mr. Hamm as well.

_Pearls before swine_, he thought with amusement.

Grissom finished tidying up the counter of the gift shop, took off his apron and hung it on the other side of the door, then prepared to lock up. He happened to glance across the concourse towards the On Loan gallery and spotted the security guard there, chatting with the janitor. The two of them were gesturing towards _Composition in Chocolate_ as they loaded up the used packing crates and trash bags of excelsior onto the janitor's cart, and although he couldn't hear their words, their expressions were easy to decipher.

He scowled. Locking the door quickly, he lumbered over, and both of them looked up at him; the guard with recognition, and the janitor with a friendly nod. Grissom tried to make his tone light. "Hey Leon. Quite an exhibit, huh?"

"More like an exhibitionist, but yeah," the guard replied with a grin. "She's pretty, um, eye-catching."

"I was just saying that there beauty should be on black velvet. I had one like that years ago, from Mexico," the janitor twanged gently, wrapping a bungee cord across the crates to secure them on the cart. Leon the guard laughed. Grissom didn't.

"Black velvet?" he murmured. The janitor looked up and gave him a wink.

"Sure—makes the nekkid little honey-cutie stand out a whole lot better," He waggled his white eyebrows suggestively. "And if it gets dusty you can just vacuum it. Use a bust duster."

Aghast, Grissom blinked at the man, who broke into a squeaky chuckle while the guard brayed out a laugh, the two of them grinning at Grissom as they did so. Leon the guard caught his breath, snorting a bit. "Geez, Hank—could you imagine what the suits around here would think of a black velvet exhibit in their hoity-toity snoot-o-rama art center?"

"Oh they'd shit a brick," Hank replied cheerfully. "Or else they'd slap up some big banner about Twentieth Century Trailer Park Classics and charge extra admission for it."

The guard brayed again, and Grissom found himself grinning a bit too, amused despite himself. "They would, too—Retro-Kitsch, Las Vegas Style."

"That's the ticket," Hank nodded. "Might even hire up some of those Elvis impersonators to give tours."

"Oh yeah," Leon snorted again. "Sure. Never happen, guys—the only black velvet you'll find around here is on the Muzak speakers in the elevators." He clapped Hank on the shoulder, and began to walk off, still chuckling to himself. Grissom looked from his retreating form and back again to the janitor beside him. He held out a hand. "I'm Eugene, from the gift shop."

"Hank," the janitor shook it, his grip cool and firm. "Saw you there helping to hang the paintings with the lady."

Grissom nodded, his gaze returning to _Composition in Chocolate_ briefly. "Yeah. Ms. Ghirardelli needed help with the invoice."

"Mighty pretty, she was."

"Yeah."

Hank sighed, and began to push the cart, throwing his wiry frame into it, peering around the side to steer. Grissom glanced at him. "Hey, let me give you a hand."

"You needn't do that—" Hank protested gently. "I've got it."

Grissom moved to the front of the cart. "No, it's okay—it's a big load. Freight elevator?"

Hank nodded. Together they rolled the cart across the empty concourse towards the elevators, moving to park in front of the last, wider one. Hank pulled a key on a chain out from the ring on his hip and put it into the lock, turning it. The elevator opened and Grissom pushed the cart in. They stood on either side of the cart before he spoke again. "So . . . what part of England are you from, Hank?"

The older man on the other side looked over at him, eyes twinkling. "Damn. What gave it away? I did so work on this blasted western twang."

Grissom eyed him sharply. "Hire up; needn't—not exactly common phrases for an American. And while your inflections are good, they're a little off on some words."

"Ah. Sussex. Lewes, to be precise," came the mild admission, in a more natural tone, British accent coming through easily now. "Although I spend most of my time in London."

Grissom smirked. "I take it you're working with . . . Miss Chocolate?"

Hank smirked back. "Dear boy, I have no idea what you're talking about. Ah—we're here."

The elevator doors opened, and Hank pushed the cart out, aiming it for the fire doors off to the right. Grissom carefully propped one open and helped guide the cart out to the alley and the waiting dumpsters there. He tossed several of the trash bags in as Hank unstrapped the crates.

"Those look . . . heavy . . . " Grissom observed.

Hank shot him an innocent look. "They shouldn't be too bad. They're just empty crates."

Grissom heaved one off the cart and looked into it.

Empty.

He looked up to see Hank staring back at him innocently. "Empty, I assure you," the older man repeated.

"So—" Grissom grumbled, pulling the crate up and slipping it over the side of the dumpster, "—where is it?"

Hank laughed. He pulled another crate off the stack and heaved it over the side of the dumpster; the resounding rattle and clang of the wood against the metal sides echoing in the alley. "Ah. Well, now that would be telling, now, wouldn't it?"

00oo00oo00

She was good, and Mike made a mental note to make sure Mr. Cinnamon outfitted her with something just her style. He'd assumed wrongly that Catherine would be wary of guns, but she was MORE than competent on the range, hitting the bulls eye seven times out of ten.

David hit it nine times out of ten.

He'd picked up the Glock, squeezed off the rounds and set the gun down again, looking pale but determined. The shots were so neatly clustered at the center that they had taken out a big hunk of the paper there, and Jelly Bean was looking astounded. "Oh wow—scared of you. Seriously."

David shrugged. "My dad took us to the range a lot. Not that I liked it much, but—"

"—But you know your firearms, yeah. Are you sure you want to work in Wardrobe?" Mike asked.

David flashed him a mild smile. "Oh yes. I'm looking forward to it."

Jelly Bean shrugged, but his grin was infectious. "Okay, no problem. So, you two are clearly up with the firepower, so that will make it a lot easier to get you set up for training. I think we ought to get you over to the clinic for medical screening and psych evaluation, and start considering your schedules. Any questions?"

David timidly raised his hand, and Mike nodded at him, slightly amused. "Yes?"

"What would happen if a person decided that they didn't want to join the Candy Shop? Not that I'm thinking that way, but I'm curious."

Mike led the way from the range and down another hall, his hands in his pockets. "It happens. We've had agents burn out even here, and a few have asked to resign for one reason or another. Generally we give them a safety net of a new ID and set them up in one of our two retirement communities, where they have the option of staying on as part-time or standby. For the ones who want to leave completely, we let them go, monitor them periodically and wish them luck."

"You don't worry that they'll go to the media with what they know?" Catherine demanded skeptically. "The tabloids alone would have a field day with the information!"

Mike shrugged, and Jelly Bean grinned. "They might—but then again, the Candy Shop owns two of the top tabloids in this country."

Catherine stopped, stunned. Jelly Bean laughed, and looked from her to David. "Oh come on—Bat Boy is one of our favorite mascots!"

"You're kidding," Catherine replied, then paused. "You're not kidding."

Mike shook his head. "Nope. By printing at least one or two articles about the Candy Shop in each issue, we suck the credibility away from any legitimate media story about us. Should any former employee attempt to reveal what they know, our operatives arrange for a large deposit to be made into their bank accounts from our tabloid accounts."

"—So their veracity is jeopardized immediately. That's sort of . . . ruthless," David murmured.

Jelly Bean shrugged. "We have to protect this operation and the people in it, David—and this is the gentlest way. We've never had to go further with anyone, thank God."

"But you would—" Catherine interjected as they all reached a frosted glass door with a red cross on it. Mike TeeVee and Jelly Bean looked at each other and shrugged.

"Let's hope it never comes to that, but, yeah. We would," Mike rumbled, pulling open the door to the clinic.

00oo00oo00

"So when do we get to meet this Milo Trebor-Bassett? We've allotted him and his work the On Loan room for this week, and from the visitor count it's pretty clear that he's going to be popular—when should we expect the man himself?" came the mild question from the man in the pinstripe suit.

Sara looked over the top of her designer sunglasses at him and sighed. "Milo is agoraphobic, Mr. Danesta. He never leaves his studio anymore, and hasn't been outside in nearly thirteen years. I'm afraid that any visits or lectures are going to be impossible unless you want to do them via a web cast."

Mr. Danesta looked perplexed; next to him Mr. Hamm gave an impatient sigh. "Too expensive, and not nearly as effective in promoting the Center as a personal visit would be. Are you sure he won't come to Vegas?"

Looking around at the four other members of the board, Sara sighed inwardly. She spoke firmly. "No, I'm afraid not—his psychiatrist has been treating him for years, and although they've made some progress, it's . . . limited. So you have _Sampans in Blue, Notre Jeune Filles, Peach Blush no.2, Feline Twilight_, and of course, _Composition in Chocolate no. 3 _for your display. Naturally they're all insured, and I'm confident that the Las Vegas Center for the Arts will take all the usual security precautions while the paintings are on loan."

"Naturally," Mr. Danesta reassured her. "Our security cameras and staff are round the clock, and in any case, we've got a few hidden measures as well. Your artwork is completely safe with us."

Sara smiled, and reached for her suede gloves, pulling them on in graceful moves. "Then I believe our business is done here. On behalf of Milo Trebor-Bassett, thank you very much, and good luck on the week's attendance."

All the men rose, politely, as Sara did, and Mr. Hamm scurried forward to escort her, reaching for her arm. Sara stared at his hand until he dropped it, awkwardly, his expression mildly embarrassed. "Errr, allow me to see you out—"

"Oh that won't be necessary, Mr. Pig, thank you." Behind her, there were a few suspicious coughs, and Sara strode out to the elevator without looking back. Inside, she pulled off her sunglasses and checked her watch, noting that it was just past closing time. When the elevator arrived in the parking garage, she made her way to the Jaguar in the visitor's lot, gave her ticket to the guard and drove away from the Center, feeling slightly tense.

The drive to Jardin de la Flor seemed to take forever in the twilight, but once Sara reached it, she pulled the big car into the shed garage and made her way to the studio.

Alex was already there, sawing away on a length of gilded frame. He looked up as Sara entered, and smiled at her. "You look lovely. How did it go?"

"They're thrilled to have the exhibit, but I can't say that I'm thrilled to be on display for every art-lover in Vegas, Uncle Alex. You should have asked me! That was supposed to be a private gift!" She snapped angrily, throwing her purse on one of the counters and storming up to him.

Alex readjusted the hacksaw, trying not to smirk. "Yes, well I'm sorry Sara, but there is a method behind my madness there. When you laid out this particular endeavor to me, I realized it would be beneficial to make the exhibit popular, and nudity does make a draw. I could have put up _Celeste at Dawn_, or that Cubist piece I did, but _Composition in Chocolate_ was finished, and right there, and it does my withered old heart good to see the reception for it. Even the guards are smitten with your chocolate-enhanced charms."

"I don't want the guards looking at it! It was supposed to be for one man, Alex, and now he's stuck watching everyone else ogle me. That was not part of the plan!" Sara growled. "Things were starting to get better between us—this does not help!"

Alex set down the saw and looked up at Sara, as if registering her full mood for the first time. He blinked a little. "Sara my dear, I'm sorry. Your young man is an exceptionally bright fellow. I met him tonight."

Sara drew back a moment, surprised. "You did?"

"Yes. He helped me move _Two Shepherds_ tonight although he didn't know it. But he figured out who I was, so he's damned sharp, and if he's upset about _Composition in Chocolate,_ you can tell him honestly that it was all my idea. I'll take full responsibility for the display."

Sara nodded. "Oh you bet you will. Where's _Two Shepherds_?"

Alex shook a finger at her. "It's perfectly safe. I'm just about to finish the frame for the replacement, but I may need a lift to the hardware store for the right gauge wire."

00oo00oo00

//Right now?//

//All their ground cover is on sale, Gil. I want a nice hardy perennial for around the base. And change out of that tie, please—it's not one of your better ones, dear.//

//Oh. Yeah, sorry. Okay, so just a quick trip to Manly Hammers and home again. I'm NOT carrying any more statuary for your garden, all right?//

//Oh all right, although I was thinking about another gnome for the front walkway--//

//No more gnomes, mom, please. Your front yard already looks like Munchkinland.//

//Ah well, So far it's the closest I'm coming to little faces beaming up at me.//

//Mom--//

//It's a joke, Gil. Gracious you need to lighten up! Now let's get moving before someone beats me to the Hollyhocks.//


	7. Chapter 7

The evening shift at Manly Hammers was usually slow on a weeknight. A few folks came in for emergency repair items—ballcock fixtures for toilets; duct tape, sections of window screen. Here and there were people eyeing the new appliances, and others making out wish lists or planning home improvement projects.

But it wasn't crowded. Most aisles were empty under the fluorescent lighting, the rows and rows of tools, fixtures and goods patiently stacked up and waiting. The mingled odors of fertilizer, metal, wood and bug spray lingered in the air, and the faint sounds of Muzak drifted through the store.

Sara sighed. Alex was supposed to be in the bolts and screws aisle, looking for a pair of eyebolts he could tarnish and use on the new frame for the fake _Two Shepherds . . . _which was already hanging in the original's frame in the gallery, apparently. She'd argued with him about simply leaving the fake in the old frame, but Alex had told her that wasn't a good idea, and that the better part of the painting's value was tied up in it being in the original frame.

"It can't be helped, really. So many people assume that the value of a painting is merely in the canvas, but that's not true—the frame is important as well—sometimes the frame is more valuable than the painting," he'd assured her. "Besides, I wouldn't consider the job done right if I didn't have the entire work to return to Ms. Machina, eh?"

She wandered up another aisle, looking at the displays of paint colors, and wondered about redoing the cabins on the _Bohemian_. Something in a restful blue, Sara mused. She'd just picked up one of the color chips to get a better look when footsteps from the close end of the aisle made her look up.

Grissom.

Striding towards her with a bright, slightly crazed smile.

She grinned back, suddenly delighted to see him in all his Eugene glory. Dropping the paint chip, she teasingly backed up a step. "Mr. Pep-per-mint---" she whispered.

"Miss Choc-o-late. Ohhhhhh Miss Chocolate," he murmured, advancing on her, his blue eyes locked onto hers, hungrily. "Hello."

"Um, hi. What—" she asked lightly, backing up one more step, "—Are you doing at Manly Hammers?"

"I came in for ornamental plants but in light of the current situation—" he told her in a low, breathless tone as he closed in on her, backing Sara up against a glossy standing floor poster for Glidden Easy Care Hi-Gloss Enamel, "—I've decided to hell with low-maintenance shrubbery, there are priorities presenting themselves in opportunities before me that I'm not about to trivialize this time—"

"—Groundcover?"

"--Hollyhocks. At the moment I couldn't give less of a damn about perennials," he growled, sliding his arms around her, pinning her against the poster.

Sara laughed softly into his face. "We're fighting, remember?"

"I give up. Fight over," he whispered, nose brushing hers. "You win forever."

"I can live with that," Sara told him brightly, and pulled him into a long, sweet and slightly desperate kiss. One kiss became two, and two merged into longer, hungrier kisses that probably would have quickly moved up into more dramatic action if a Manly Hammers clerk hadn't come around the end of the aisle, lugging a plastic bin of drop cloths.

"Whoah, 'scuse ME," she chortled, doing an about face with her box. "Have fun—"

Sara burst out laughing against the side of Grissom's neck, making snorting noises there as he grinned himself, still holding her tightly. "Oh God . . . we're necking in hardware store, like teenagers . . ."

"It's apropos; I have a rather manly hammer at the moment—" Grissom admitted.

Sara slithered against him, her chuckle throaty now. "You do, don't you? Seems we ought to do something about that."

Grissom cocked his head. "Right here? Then we're definitely going to need drop cloths."

"Nnnnnot right here. For one thing, I'm not crazy about being caught on surveillance cameras."

Grissom glanced up and nodded. "Good point. I'd hate to have my Golden Hammer card revoked."

"Really, you're not here alone, are you?" Sara persisted, and Grissom reluctantly let her go.

"No. And I've got to get back before Mom ends up with half the garden department charged to my account," came the sigh. "Sara—"

"Shhhh—art nab over soon, and we'll be back onboard the _Bohemian_, together, rocking gently . . . rocking . . . " she teased, flexing her hips against him as she spoke.

Grissom groaned. "God, when?"

"Soon, my darling Mr. Peppermint. Soooooon."

The Manly Hammers Garden Center was a huge cement floored space with long rows of plants and garden ornamentation lining it. At this hour of the evening it was serene in its semi-darkness, almost celestial, Alex thought as he wandered in. The greenery smelled wonderful, the sharp scent undercut with hints of lavender and carnation, both perfumes he loved.

Alex looked up and noted that in the middle of the area was a beautiful trellis arch, white wood, with curly sweet pea climbing along it on either side in a perfect frame. There was a woman sitting on the seat under it, and she looked up at him just as he looked at her.

His heart skipped a beat.

At that moment, all the sprinklers went off , spraying throughout the Garden Center with a low and commanding hiss, water misting out, creating refracted rainbows everywhere the eye could see. The water blurred everything.

Alex didn't move for a moment as the mist drenched him, wetting his hair, saturating his shirt and slacks. Oblivious to the deluge, he kept staring at the woman, who had risen from the bench. Then his paralysis broke and he strode towards her, moving fast until he reached her, arms reaching out in her direction, never letting his gaze shift lest she disappear---

Again.

He reached her; she looked up at him in astonishment, her bright blue eyes wide. Alex cupped her face in his long, artistic hands and bent to her, his heart pounding wildly, searching her expression, looking for something.

"Olivia . . . " he whispered brokenly. "My God, Olivia!"

"Ale'c . . ." she blurted, still staring up at him. She tried to shake her head, but he was quicker, and dropped a kiss on her mouth; the first warm contact stilled her confusion, and Olivia kissed him back, tentatively at first, but with more passion as each second passed.

When they both ended the kiss, they stood looking at each other, both soaking, smiling, holding hands.

"Wea wet," Olivia murmured.

Alex nodded. "I don't care." He carefully released his grip on her hands and signed something.

Olivia burst out laughing. Gently she reached for his hands and corrected the positions, then drew his hands up and lightly kissed them.

Alex closed his eyes, overwhelmed for the moment.

_Olivia._

00oo00oo00

"Toffee it is," Mike told her with a smile. "Fits you perfectly—rich, sleek, golden . . . "

"Elegant," Jelly Bean added impishly. Catherine rubbed the back of her neck where the chip had been implanted, and smiled back.

"And sometimes mixed with nuts," she replied archly. "Oh well, Toffee it is."

"Some of us like toffee," Mike told her in an undertone. Catherine shot him a quick look from the corner of her eye, but before she could say anything, David looked at Jelly Bean, who cleared his throat apologetically.

"Looks like I was mistaken, dude. We've already got a Marshmallow, although he's on deactivated status while he cares for his parents in Boca Raton. We've got the names Taffy, Gummi Bear and Mallomar—"

"--Mallomar," David nodded. "I like those, and they're versatile, as cookie candy combos go."

"All right then, Mallomar it is," Jelly Bean agreed. "Toffee and Mallomar, step right this way—"

The four of them left the little clinic office and went back to the briefing room; on the table were two rich leather folders at the places where Catherine and David had been sitting. Catherine touched hers with a finger. "Wow, nice."

"Quality," David agreed. They opened them at the same time as Mike TeeVee spoke.

"Your schedules for the next two weeks. We expect you here by eight each morning, ready to work until five in the evening. You have exams, both written and otherwise to pass, and a great deal of studying to do. Jelly Bean has agreed to mentor you, Mallomar, and I'll do the same for you, Toffee. Your cover, if anyone cares to ask or needs information, is that you're working as temps for Doctor Heather Marazek here in the Truman Tower. These IDS—" he handed over a pair of badges, "—Will get you in. Any questions?"

David held up a timid hand; in the other one he held a check that he'd taken out of his folder. "Um, this . . . ?"

"Compensation and expenses," Mike TeeVee told him with a small smile. "Believe me, the Shop intends to get their money's worth out of you in time, but an advance will help you settle your affairs as you transition into the job."

"And how," Catherine noted, wide-eyed at the amount on her check. "Okay, I think I can call the moving company now."

Jelly Bean laughed. "You've got a lot to think about, so give it a day or two, okay? This isn't a job, it's truly and honestly a vocation, and you can't take it, or its ramifications lightly. Sleep on it, give it some thought, and be back here at eight tomorrow."

David and Jelly Bean left together, chatting, and when they'd gone, Catherine got up and moved over to Mike, who shoved his hands in his pockets. She hesitated a moment, then looked up at him.

"I could be," she began softly, "The biggest mistake of your career."

He arched an eyebrow at her, well aware of what she meant. He shook his head and rumbled softly. "You know what the best thing about working in an electronics store is? It's finding something that has potential that nobody else sees. It's working with it until you've got power moving through it, flowing the way it should—sometimes better than anyone ever dreamed it would—and putting it to the right job. I don't think I'm making a mistake, Cath—I think I'm eyeing a lot of potential, and looking forward to seeing it work."

Catherine blushed, the heat blooming on her face at the unexpected and beautiful compliment. She blinked, and Mike TeeVee laughed softly. "And on that note, let's grab some hamburgers or something—I'm starving."

00oo00oo00

When Grissom finally located his mother, she was dripping wet and grinning like a loon, her expression slightly frightening. Concerned, he leaned forward and waved a hand in front of her face, fearing she'd had a stroke or something worse. She blinked and signed at him sweetly.

//Gil, I'm fine. A little damp, but I'm just fine. //

//No you're not, Mom—you're completely wet, for one thing. What happened// he demanded, looking her over with care.

//I . . . got distracted, dear. But everything's all right now, really. Let's go home. // she signed, somewhat dreamily.

//Without the plants//

//Plants? Oh! Yes, well, I think we can get them another time. //

Grissom stared at her, debating whether a quick stop at the walk-in clinic would be a good idea when his mother ran her fingers through her damp hair and sighed. // I need to change, let's go home. Gil//

//Yes?//

//Why do you have lipstick on your neck//

Guiltily he wiped fingers over the area, but his mother had already turned away, still smiling in a slightly goofy fashion as she wandered out the sliding glass doors of Manly Hammers. Grissom followed behind her, distinctly wary now.

From the far doorway of the Garden Center, Sara watched him leave, curious herself as to why his mother was soaked from head to foot. This wasn't a light dousing either—the woman had clearly stood in the spray for quite a while to get that wet. But she didn't look angry or annoyed; in fact, she looked rather . . . blissed out, Sara thought.

A bit like she felt herself, at the moment. Smiling, Sara turned away and began looking for Alex. Twenty minutes later, she located him standing outside, next to the car, drumming his fingers on the hood impatiently. He looked up at her sharply when she approached. "There you are! I've been waiting a lifetime for you!"

"And I was waiting for you! Why weren't you in the store?"

"Store? Oh, I finished up early, found the bolts I needed right away. Come, come, let's get back to the studio," Alex replied, already yanking on the passenger door impatiently. Sara stared at him.

"You're wet. Why are you wet, Uncle Alex?"

"What? Oh that. Misstep among the plants. Come on, what are we waiting for?" he snapped with uncharacteristic impatience. Scowling, Sara climbed into the driver's seat and started the car, suddenly struck by the coincidence of dampness.

"Did you see a lady in the Garden Department? Someone who also got wet?" she asked when they'd driven for a while. Alex blinked clearly lost in thought.

"Hmm? Oh, yes. A couple of us got caught in the spray. Damned inconsiderate of the place not to have some sort of warning system . . . Sara, how much longer do we have for this, er, mission?"

She glanced over at him curiously; it was exceedingly unlike Alex not to remember the timeline, especially given his role in it. "Two days. Alex, are you all right?"

"Fine," he replied absently. "Never better."

Sara had some growing private doubts about that, but said nothing. They reached Jardin de la Flor shortly, and Alex climbed out, groaning a little. "Damn the damp; plays hell with my joints. Here, I'm going to go change and I'll be down shortly. I want to get that frame finished tonight."

"Okay," she agreed, eyeing him mildly. "I thought I'd go check on the _Bohemian _myself."

"Good, good," Alex agreed. "Excellent idea."

"I'll be back in a while," Sara told him, and watched as he made his way from the car to the main doors of the art studio. She drove off down the drive and turned onto the highway, went a few miles and turned back, parking in the darkness of the long driveway before climbing out and making her way back, her expression concerned.

_You're off your game, Uncle Alex, and I don't like it_, she thought to herself grimly.

00oo00oo00

David Phillips looked over at the girl standing in the doorway of the Closet, blinking at her while she blushed. "You're my what?"

"Your assistant, Mr. Mallomar. Josette? Josette Ashe? I know you don't start work until tomorrow, officially, but I wanted to introduce myself while you were still here . . . so . . . um, hi," she squeaked, smiling and trying not to squirm, or wrap her hands in her apron. David held out a hand to her, and she slipped her dark fingers to his, shaking it.

"I have an assistant?" he murmured, smiling gently.

Josette nodded, the green beads on her long cornrow braids clicking as she did so, her smile a dazzling white. "Yep. It's a promotion for me too, from dry cleaning, repair and laundry. I'm a good worker, and I can do hems like nobody's business, so . . . ."

" . . . Hems are a bitch," David nodded. "It takes a good eye to pin them the first go round, especially on certain fabrics."

Josette nodded emphatically. "Oh tell me about it! Chiffon's tough, and sateen, do not even go there! I had to measure a choir robe three times before I'd let it out of my hands, and even then I wasn't totally happy!"

David eyed her with respect and approval, then let his glance become more serious. "Tell me, how would you cut a pattern on leather?"

Josette frowned a moment. "Chalk, probably."

David shook his head. " Too much risk of losing the lines on the material, though it would do for the smaller pieces. Wrap the torso in masking tape, then cut it off the body. Make your pattern from the tape for the closest fit possible, least waste of leather. Best needle for it?"

"Curved," Josette responded promptly. "Waxed thread closest in shade to leather, one shade lighter from the waist up, one shade darker from the waist down."

"Aces," David smiled, pushing up his glasses. "Okay, you know your stuff and then some. I'll be looking in the Closet during lunch tomorrow and I'd like you there, if that's all right."

"Mr. Mallomar, that would be just peachy with me!" She grinned, and reached for David's hand once more shaking it happily. He grinned at her, and backed into the open elevator, waving at her again before the doors closed.

After they had, Josette Ashe hugged herself and practically danced back down the hallway.


	8. Chapter 8

Sara peered into the tiny binoculars, keeping the lenses fixed on the lighted window of the studio barn, her confusion growing. Nearly a hundred yards away, Alex was working industriously, but not on the frame. He had a canvas out, and was sketching intently, moving with precision as he traced something onto the off-white fabric. Sara couldn't tell what it was, but the rough shape suggested a portrait of some sort.

She wondered if he'd gotten a last minute case of nerves, but even as the thought occurred to her, she set it aside. Alex was the king of cool; the master of misdirection. No, he had some sort of plan, and Sara found herself miffed not to be in on it.

Not that he needed to tell her everything, but still—she'd asked him in on the caper because he was the best.

And it paid well—or would, once done.

She thought back over the evening, and on an impulse, pulled out her phone and hit the speed dial; Grissom picked up on the second ring. "Mr. Peppermint?"

"Miss Chocolate," he replied, curiosity in his tone.

"By chance did you mother say anything about how or why she got all wet in the garden department tonight?"

He paused. "Not . . . really. Why, do you have a theory?"

"I'm starting to," she muttered. "Tell me, does she know anything about Art?"

The soft laugh that greeted this startled her a bit. "You're kidding, right?"

"Nooooo."

"I haven't told you much about my mother, have I?"

"Well," her tone softened; grew warmer as she shifted the binoculars a bit. "When we're together, we're generally . . . too busy to talk . . . much."

"I remember," came his frustrated growl. "Nevertheless, I thought that somewhere down the line I might have mentioned that my mother was part of an Artist in Residence program for nearly two decades, and ran her own gallery to boot—all despite being deaf."

"Ohh!" Sara blurted. "Wow, really?"

"Cross my heart. Why? Does it have a bearing on our exchange?"

"It might. Nothing to jeopardize it though—I'll call you later, lover." Sara hung up after making a kiss noise into the phone, aware that the sound would both amuse and annoy the man on the other end. She pocketed her cell and studied Alex a moment more.

"You and she. I'm not stupid, Uncle Alex—" Sara murmured in frustration. "Whatever you're plotting, just—don't let it mess up the switch. That's all I ask."

In the distance, the old man reverently raised a brush to the canvas. Sara sighed and began to make her way back to the car.

00oo00oo00

Bruce Eiger looked around the walls of his study, pointedly ignoring the one where the secret panel lay. He concentrated instead on the other three, eyeing the artwork that adorned them, feeling a sense of covertness for the paintings in his possession.

A Rubens hung on the wall before him; one of the studies of Venus in all her fleshly pink and gold beauty, roly poly cherubs attending her. Bruce snorted; he wasn't fond of the painting, but its monetary value—three million-- was giving him the beginnings of an erection.

He shifted his gaze to the left. The wall there was taken up with a Montague Dawson of a clipper ship in graceful moonlight. Bruce waved his glass of whisky at the vessel. "Be careful captain that you don't run into the fat-ass iceberg over there." He took a slip and added, "On second thought, that jabby prow of yours would pop Big Bertha like a balloon."

The ludicrous image made him laugh, and when the phone rang he was still in a slightly jovial mood as he answered. "Yeah?"

"Good evening, Mr. Eiger. I just wanted to call and see if you were interested in a painting," came a tone over the line. Eiger felt his pulse quicken, and he lowered his voice even though nobody was in the room with him.

"You got one for me?" he demanded, a little breathlessly.

"I might," the tone noncommittal. "If the price is right."

"We already," Bruce growled, "covered price. I don't re-negotiate, asshole."

"Oh I didn't mean for that painting," came the same soft tones as before, the clipped accent sounding light. "While I was waiting for that one to dry, I amused myself by doing a different one—different subject, from another part of . . . the gallery."

Bruce was quiet for a long moment, considering this, the cogs of his mind turning, the acid in his massive stomach churning. The risks of substituting the Battaglia were already high, but the additional substitution of another painting had him gritting his teeth.

He shouldn't do it. Too damned much risk. Unacceptable.

And yet . . . and yet there were a couple of pretty high-roller paintings at the Center that he wouldn't mind having for his own. The Caravaggio for one; or maybe the Klee—it all depended on what the old bastard had painted. Eiger cleared his throat. "I don't stick my dick out unless I know where it's going."

"A crude but astute practice," drawled the other man over the phone. "However, I assure you this opportunity won't come along again."

"Which one?"

"The Turner—_Quiet Waters of Calais_."

Eiger sucked in a deep breath, trying to mask his reaction. The Turner was on loan; a multi-million dollar prize that was due to return to England in a year. Grabbing that would be a master coup, especially if the replacement was never spotted for what it was . . .

"How much? And don't jack up the price just because I'm asking—"

"—Same price as for _Two Shepherds. _I can have both originals for you by the day after tomorrow if you're interested."

"Wait a minute—" Eiger rumbled, his instincts roused. "—You're going to do it anyway, aren't you? You're going to pull a switcharoo on the Turner whether or not I buy it. You're just offering it to me because I'm the first one on your list!"

"Yes," came the mild agreement. "I'm interested in a quick sale, Mr. Eiger, and anxious to start a new life. You've got a reputation as a man who's willing to take a few risks to get the rewards he deserves—consider this one more."

Eiger said nothing for a long moment, weighing the odds, balancing risk to gain; chance to profit; gamble to greed. He cleared his throat. "Sure. I'll go for it—might be nice to have a hedge against inflation. Count me in."

"Good. I'll call you with the particulars tomorrow night, around seven."

"No, no more phones," Eiger complained. "It's too easy to get jerked around. Face to face. We can do dinner again."

There was a pause at the other end, and Eiger gloated, sensing the uneasiness there. He turned the screws a little. "Of course, if you think you can find a better buyer out there . . . might take some time . . . . "

"No, no—you're quite right. Dinner it shall be. The Octopus's Garden tomorrow then, at eight."

Eiger heard the emptiness of disconnection, but the annoyance at not hanging up first was swept away by thoughts of the Turner. He looked at the third wall of his massive study, at the Dali lithograph that hung there. Eiger pointed a stubby finger at it and laughed. "Adios, you Spanish turd—you and your crazy melted crap are outta here, and back to the dealer tomorrow."

He hit another number on his speed dial and left an ominous message.

00oo00oo00

Another busy day at the Center for the Arts. Class field trip groups had invaded, and long lines of kids in matching tee shirts chattered and scattered among the various galleries, sometimes to be rounded up by exasperated teachers, sometimes left to their own devices. Grissom watched them, amused at how their attention spans shifted from painting to painting. As usual, there was a crowd around _Composition in Chocolate_, some kids pointing, others openly staring.

Ah well, that was all part of an education, he supposed. Exposure to the Arts could have a very literal definition sometimes. For the most part he himself stayed busy in the gift shop, restocking inventory and making brisk sales of the candy and key rings near the register while trying patiently to dodge the persistent bullying of Mr. Hamm, who seemed to have become more peevish by the day.

Once or twice he saw the old man, Hank, doing some menial chore along the main foyer. Mopping up a spill; cleaning smudged glass. The man shuffled slowly from chore to chore, and Grissom wondered if he was well. He watched Hank roll the cart that held the vacuum into the gallery next to the On Loan one, and close the door, posting the sign about it being temporarily closed.

Curious, Grissom kept an eye out. Ten minutes later Hank came out again, vacuum loaded up again, and moved into the On Loan gallery, closing THAT for ten minutes as well.

The back of his neck prickled.

Grissom waited until Hank shuffled out of the On Loan gallery and made his way across the foyer to the older man. When he reached him, Grissom noted that despite some fatigue, Hank looked bright-eyed; spry in fact. Hank greeting him cheerfully. "Hello, Eugene. How are tricks in the trinket trade?"

"Trivial," he replied lightly, falling into step with Hank. The old man pushed the cart, rolling it along towards the next gallery. "So . . . What's a shrewd . . . artist . . . like you doing in a job like this?"

Hank looked at him in a sidelong glance and smiled under his mustache. "I could ask the same of you now, couldn't I?"

Grissom sighed, and lowered his voice. "Enough games. Both of us are here under the directive of a certain lady, and I for one want to make sure that everything . . . goes well."

Hank pushed the cart towards the Art Barn, and paused at the doorway there, resting his hands on the handle. Grissom noted that although they were callused they were surprisingly clean for a janitor. "If you want to help—really help—then make sure you're around at the end of the week when the On Loan gallery is being packed up. That's when things are going to happen."

The quiet confidence of the other man's voice reassured Grissom and he gave a nod, then let his gaze turn back to the two gallery rooms. "Okay, but when this is all over and done, I'm going to want to know how you did it."

The laugh that greeted this was deep and amused; Hank shot Grissom a fond glance. "Oh you are a credit to you mother . . . Eugene. Oh dear--trouble coming up at eight o'clock, amigo—cover your ass . . . " So saying, Hank pushed the cart into the Art Barn, and Grissom turned to see Mr. Hamm advancing on him like a malevolent wasp, complete with irritating buzz.

"Eugene, you're not officially on break for another forty minutes, and you've left the shop uncovered! I've got no choice but to write you up and have management reprimand you financially for this!" He began, his tone sharp. "Do you have any idea how much revenue you've lost us while you're off loitering and lollygagging?"

Grissom blinked, and spoke softly. "The average sales today have been about thirty six dollars an hour, and by my estimate I was over here for three minutes, so that would come to about a dollar eighty, Mr. Hamm. Here---" He fished in his pocket and pulled out two dollar bills. "You can stick this . . . in the till."

Grissom didn't think human lips could get that thin; Mr. Hamm's mouth looked like a ticket slot, and his eyes glittered dangerously. He took the money, snatching it out of Grissom's hand, and meekly, Grissom returned to the Gift Shop, trying not to laugh.

The Octopus's Garden was a small restaurant near the Luxor. It was noted for a beautiful pavilion with surrounding garden, themed with Zen gardens, rock sculptures and a beautiful variety of xeriscapes that incorporated native plants, flowers and trees into soothing vistas.

The food was notable too, for a wide selection of seafood served in a variety of ethnically diverse ways. Usually there was a wait of an hour or two for a table, but when Bruce Eiger showed up at seven thirty he was ushered to a table. He scowled when he got there, unhappy to see not one, but two people already seated.

"I didn't know we were having company," Bruce grunted.

The old man smiled. "Camouflage, Mr. Eiger. When two men, one of them especially known and powerful--have dinner more than once together, it's clearly a meeting. But when a lady is present, well—obviously it's a social occasion, and dispels any undue interest. If any one asks, we're your uncle and aunt from New Jersey, here on a visit."

Eiger nodded reluctantly, aware of the common sense of the arrangement. He settled in to his side of the booth and shot a look at the woman seated with the old man. She looked back at him demurely, saying nothing. Eiger glanced at the man. "Quiet. I like that in a woman."

"That doesn't surprise me in the least. My lovely companion is here for the dinner, and as insurance that your gunman isn't going to make any hasty and regrettable moves this evening."

Eiger's face flushed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The other man's face grew cold. "Of course not. In any case, we're here for the fish and a little casual talk about good art, and how to procure it. I've taken the liberty of ordering a bottle of La Bellanova '82 to for us while we consider the dinner menu."

He turned to look at his companion and smiled at into her eyes, patting her hand. "Like old times, eh my dear?"

She smiled at him.

00oo00oo00

Portia Richmond sat and knitted, trying not to look anxious. The low drone of the television filled the room, and across from her on the sofa, Sam looked tense enough as it was. Both of them were waiting, working on patience; a virtue that didn't come easily to either of them.

Reggie was behind the bathroom door out in the hallway.

Sam shifted, and Portia let her glance move to him, taking in the lines around his mouth as he kept it closed. She wanted to reassure him, but knew he wouldn't hear a word she said at the moment.

Deep inside she felt a giddy sense of certainty. It had happened, Portia was sure of it. Given the time and effort involved—and here she pinkened slightly—yes, it simply had to be so.

Reggie and Sam were so very much in love, she reflected, and their romance had brought a great deal of joy to her. Sam had softened a bit in his outlook, and become much slower to anger. He basked in the love of the girl, and had more life to him these days.

And as for Reggie, Portia smiled; the girl had blossomed. She was more confident, more open and thrilled with every little thing the day brought. Being with the two of them was like receiving an infusion of all the best things in life. At the risk of feeling sentimentally cliché, Portia hoped. She hoped so very much . . .

"S-S-Sam?" Reggie's voice came faintly from the hallway. Portia watched as he scrambled off the sofa and across the room faster than she'd seen him move before. The urge to take off after him was strong, but Portia steeled herself to stay and sit; to keep knitting.

But she listened.

Faint sounds from the hallway came to her: Reggie's soft murmur, then a moment of silence, and after that, a joyous shout from Sam, quickly muffled by what she assumed had to be the kiss of all kisses

Portia gripped her knitting for a moment, hope and joy welling up in her, and spilling out in quick tears as she sent up a little prayer of humble thanks.

Something more to be thankful for, she knew, and blinked happily.


	9. Chapter 9

Sara looked around the studio, feeling that something was out of place; not quite right. Earlier in the evening she'd invited Alex out to dinner but he'd begged off, pleading an engagement of his own.

"Old friend that I've been meaning to look up forever, Sara dear. At my age, you've got to visit while you can. I hope you understand--" he'd murmured gently.

She'd nodded, aware of his slightly guilty look. Without asking anything further, Sara had let him go off with her Miata, leaving her the rental car and more doubts than she wanted to deal with alone. Restlessly she wandered around, poking and peeking at various pieces drying or half-finished.

It struck her again and again how really good Alex was, both in style and technique as she flipped through some of the sketches and canvases. He was equally talented with charcoal as he was with watercolor, oils and pastels, and although he tended to favor the Masters in both mediums and subjects, his original works had a whimsy and life to them that were distinct.

Sara smirked, remembering the afternoon she'd posed for him for _Composition in Chocolate_, feeling nervous and embarrassed. Alex had laughed at her emotions.

"_Gracious, girl, relax! Think of me as a camera, here to r__ecord the moment."_

"_I'm naked," she'd muttered back, clutching her robe, fingers tightening on the lapels. Alex had snorted, and looked her in the eye._

"_I do hate to break it to you my dear, but I've seen a lot of naked people in my line of work. Men, women, children—life studies, models, performance art, subject studies . . . and the same thing happens with all of them. When I'm in the mindset for art, all other perceptions switch off. I'm not a man with biological impulses, I'm on a higher plane, channeling the energy and matter of what I see into something others can perceive. I don't think of you as a woman, or even as an individual anymore, Sara. You're the central focus of a vision, and as such are a sum of parts and a conglomeration of color and texture that I transfer to canvas."_

Sara had felt a spark of respect at his quiet, thoughtful tone; at his sincerity. She'd moved to the sofa and let the robe drop, shifting under his direction until she found a pose they both liked.

It had been sensual but serious too she remembered; an afternoon tinged with the rich perfume of chocolate and the tiny wet flicking sounds of brush bristles on canvas. Sara had felt a new awareness of her own body, of her flaws and features; of the way it felt and moved now that she had a lover.

It had been a good afternoon, one reflected in the end product.

Sara grinned. Her phone rang, and lazily she answered it. "Hello?"

"You look exceptionally lovely tonight," Mr. Peppermint purred into her ear. She stiffened for a moment, and made it a point NOT to look around. Instead, she relaxed a little, and leaned against one of the easels.

"And how would you know that? Not that you're wrong—" she assured him playfully. The soft sigh in her ear sounded amused.

"Because I can see you, of course."

Sara considered this. It was entirely possible of course—Mr. Peppermint was nothing if not resourceful, but she'd been careful . . . hadn't she? With annoyance Sara realized she hadn't actually checked about being followed in the last two days. She very carefully shifted her cell phone and began to pull her shirt up. "You're bluffing, Mr. Peppermint; hoping I'll buy your line."

"It's possible," he admitted, "The ruse is an acceptable technique for those of us in the business of conning other people. On the other hand--"

"—Yes?"

"—I hear shifting clothing. More than that, I see shifting clothing." His voice sounded slightly breathless.

Sara artistically slid the shirt off and lightly flung it away. She had confidence that Alex wouldn't be back for hours, and the sudden urge to see if she really was alone. "So you say you can see me . . . " she began casually, keeping her voice pitch low. "I don't believe you."

"Ah, but you should."

"Why? Tell me something that proves you are looking at me, Mr. Peppermint." Sara insisted softly as she reached behind her back and lazily unhooked her bra. The sudden heavy breathing in her ear made her pulse speed up; Sara lifted her head and began to look around the studio.

There were too many nooks and crannies, she realized with annoyance. Cupboards, little hidden corners between counters and walls, deep shadows and easels and God only knew what else.

"You just took something off, and are working on a second thing, all to tease me," Mr. Peppermint told her in a husky voice. "You do things like that because you know damned well that they torment and distract me, and that if I wasn't so insanely in love with you I'd go mad."

Goosebumps rippled over her arms and chest; Sara gave a delicious little shudder that had nothing to do with the temperature. "Ahhhh, but you yourself admitted you could hear cloth; that's no proof, just an extended guess."

There was a little pause.

"This is arousing you," he told her. "I can tell. You're getting slightly restless as you take your clothes off."

Sara slid her bra straps off her shoulders and leaned forward a bit, convinced that Mr. Peppermint indeed was close by, but not quite sure where. She took the bra in one hand and flung it with carefree abandon across the room. Sara's reward was a sigh of serious appreciation. She strained to hear if it was just from the receiver next to her ear, or if it echoed in the room, and was annoyed when she couldn't tell. "I'm going to stop, if you don't reveal yourself, Sara grumbled.

"And that would be a terrible shame," came the soft taunt. "To not see the game through, oh my beautiful, delicious, Miss Chocolate."

She squirmed; she couldn't help it, not when he used that tone deep in her ear. Sara slowly spun around and looked throughout the room once more, still seeing nothing, but feeling the heated intensity of Mr. Peppermint's gaze directly on her skin. "God I want you—" she whispered, her mouth a little dry now, and her words brought an answering little groan.

"Not nearly as much as I want you. But you've been so cruel to me lately, flaunting your beautiful evilness. You are a belle dame sans merci when you want to be, my Miss Chocolate, and I'm finding I like the pain a little bit. It puts an edge to my lust."

Startled, Sara felt heat bloom across her chest; on her cheeks. It wasn't just the tone of his voice now, but the sincerity of his words; the ragged honesty and emotion under them that did it. She loved hearing that little edge of recklessness in Mr. Peppermint's tone—not enough to be dangerous, but personally satisfying and destined as the prelude to their erotic intimacy.

She was slightly dizzy now, and took a deep breath, looking up into the glass skylights, half-expecting to see him there. Only darkness and stars met her glance, but in her ear the voice continued.

"You're the most maddening, most exciting woman I've ever met, Miss Chocolate. You make me howl and bring me to my knees time and time again, but I can't stop wanting you. You make me earn every kiss, every touch. You play me like a concert violin, wringing out every note of my lust for your own sensual sonata, and I adore you for it."

Sara undid her slacks with one hand, trembling, trying to be graceful but her attention was locked on her phone. "God—"

"Tell me you want me."

"I want you," she muttered, voice shaky. "And if you don't come out here--"

"—You'll start without me?" came Mr. Peppermint's groaned question. "Damn it--"

"Damn right," Sara announced, feeling she'd just regained the upper hand. Two could play mind games, and given how she was feeling . . . well, a little more feeling would definitely help.

Sara made her way over to the sofa, stepping out of her slacks and panties, bending to gracefully peel off her socks. The room was cool, but she ignored that, and lightly tossed herself onto the cushions, grateful they were fabric and not leather. With care, she set the phone on the arm of the sofa over her head, leaving it open. She sighed loudly. "Evil is as evil does, Mr. Peppermint. If you're going to taunt me and incite my lust, then it seems only right that I should indulge . . . myself."

The response from the phone was a crude exclamation, and Sara giggled. She shifted on the length of the sofa, letting her hands slide over her breasts and toying with her hardened nipples. Somewhere Mr. Peppermint was watching, she hoped, and then she began to touch.

Her fingers remembered the dance. Sara sighed, letting her hands tease and tweak her chest, playing a private game as she closed her eyes. It felt very good to caress herself, giving in to the liquid desire that Mr. Peppermint had primed in her. There had been times when simply toying with her nipples had been enough to bring her to orgasm, but she sensed she was too unfocused for that tonight.

Too hungry for her lover.

Sara heard footsteps, and she opened her eyes, a jolt of fresh desire flashing through her as Mr. Peppermint walked over to her. She didn't know where he'd been hiding, and at this moment it didn't matter. He was here, and by the look of things, he wanted her as much as she wanted him, oh yes. Carefully, lazily she sat up.

He smiled then, his teeth white as he stepped to the edge of the sofa and looked down at her, his eyes glittering. Sara reached for his fly, undoing it, freeing his thick shaft and caressing it with one hand.

"So beautiful," Sara murmured, and bent forward, licking one warm stroke along the underside, where it was most sensitive.

Mr. Peppermint's head arched back and he tensed his jaw. "No. More. Teasing," he growled. Miss Chocolate smiled.

She took him into her mouth, tongue curling around his shaft, and slowly began to suck, concentrating on what would excite him; feel good. This hadn't been something she'd ever liked doing much, but that was before Mr. Peppermint, when it was a gesture of quid pro quo with other lovers. With him though—it was a different matter altogether, and the raw pleasure of his taste, his heft and heat, his musky scent all conspired to heighten her hunger.

The act itself was a sweet balancing act of power and submission; lust and control, and that alone made it exciting to her. To have him deep in her mouth, to feel him throb, to caress his cock with lips and tongue and teeth was to know true lust. Her hands moved to undo his slacks, her mouth never missing a stroke as she freed him of his clothing. In her hands the heavy, silk mass of his balls was warm.

After a few deeper strokes though, Sara felt Mr. Peppermint's hand squeezing on her shoulder in a warning, and reluctantly she pulled back, a last few flicks across the thick, weeping head of his cock. She looked up through her lashes at him, gratified to see his chest heaving as he pulled off his shirt and stepped out of the slacks.

She languidly opened her legs, hungry for the thrust of him, but instead Mr. Peppermint knelt, and leaned down, nuzzling her thighs, nipping them wetly. Startled, Sara tried to shift, but he slid his arms under the crook of her knees and tugged up; she dropped back, and the whole of her curly sex opened to him, glittering and fragrant.

Sara whimpered. Mr. Peppermint gave a hungry, happy groan and bent forward, mouth pressing in the gentlest of kisses, and when the heat of his tongue slid out and against the slickness of her sex, she cried out in pleasure.

He was sweetly ruthless, and nearly twenty minutes later as Sara arched her way through a third, softer orgasm, she slid her fingers along his scalp and gripped his hair, pulling hard. "God! Enough!"

Mr. Peppermint lifted his head from between her splayed thighs, his slick grin both smug and tender. "Enough?"

"Yes, yes, I just—please!" Sara cried, half-laughing as she wriggled on the now damp cushions. "You win, okay?"

Mr. Peppermint's grin shifted to a full smile, and he eased himself onto the sofa, pulling Sara to straddle him. She reached down between them, guiding his shaft and sinking herself onto it gratefully. He grunted, his hands gripping her ass firmly, and Sara could feel his cock throbbing deeply inside her.

She moved, pumping slowly, the rhythm building between them.

His lips brushed against her ear, and the hot puffs of his breath tickled as he spoke, his words thick with desire. "I want you . . . always . . . oh GOD . . . please say . . . yessss . . . .yessssss . . . "

Sara felt soft and ready for his heat, his lust; she gripped his damp shoulders and smiled, licking his lips and tasting herself on them. "Deeper, harder . . . " she urged him. "Yesssss—"

He'd held out as long as he could, but at her tender words Mr. Peppermint thrust his hips up, lifting Sara as he erupted deeply within her, his arms wrapping tightly around her bare back, his face in the loose waves of her hair.

"MySarraaaaa, yessss!" came his growl, deep and satisfied.

She felt the hot surges within her and shivered, clinging to him, wanting to hold this man in her arms as long as she could.

00oo00oo00

Bruce Eiger glared at the old couple across the table. Neither of them looked at all perturbed, and that pissed him off even more. He poured himself more wine and spoke. "So let me get this straight. You want to sell me two paintings and all you want in return is a chance to get to New Zealand?"

"That's it, yes."

"How do I know the paintings are real and you're not pulling a double cross on me? Once I have them in my possession it's not like I can call in anybody legit to verify them right way, you know. Forgive me if I'm not exactly all-trusting in this deal," Eiger pointed out with annoyance. The woman hadn't said a word all night, and it bothered him.

"Because yours will have signatures, Mr. Eiger. The . . . replacements will not. They will have temporary signatures that will fade in a matter of days, and once that fact is discovered, the Las Vegas Center for the Arts will have two choices: Either reveal the truth about the fakes and pay forth the exorbitant theft insurance on them, putting the institution into bankruptcy and besmirching their reputation, or quietly hiring someone to add signatures and keep mum about the entire situation. Which do YOU think they're most likely to do?"

Eiger nodded thoughtfully. "No signatures?"

The old man shrugged. "One can only be convicted of forgery if there is a clear attempt to impersonate another artist. Without a signature, a work of art, even if meticulously copied down to the last brushstroke cannot in a court of law be called a forgery. At best it is a pastiche, nothing more."

"So all the bucks are really for the damned autograph."

The old man made a moue. "Exactly so. Nonetheless, you have a chance to regain the Battaglia AND have the Turner, all for a moderate sum. Do we have a deal?"

Eiger hesitated a moment, then nodded again. "Forty thou along with expenses. When?"

"Tomorrow. Are you familiar with a shopping area known as Mesa Mall?" The old man asked.

Eiger nodded.

"Good. There is a poster shop there on the north side. Come at three o'clock and you will have your Battaglia and Turner."

"That's it?" Eiger asked. The old man nodded, and lightly touched his companion on the hand. She looked up at him, and he smiled.

"Time to go, my dear," he told her, and helped her out of the booth. She smiled at Eiger, who gave a grunt back. Neither man held out at hand to each other, but instead exchanged a long meaningful stare.

Eiger watched them go. His cell phone rang and he opened it, barking out a single word. "No."

_At least_, he thought, _not this time_. _But drive-bys happen all the time, even in Vegas. Even in shopping mall parking lots._

Outside, Olivia took Alex's arm and forced him to look at her. Her sharp glance made him sigh, and carefully he signed to her. /I know what I'm doing, my love./

/So does Eiger/ she gestured back. /and his sort play for keeps, Alex. And what the hell was all that about New Zealand? You hate sheep!/

He smiled, and slipped his arm around her, laughing a little as he touched his nose with hers. /Well I don't hate them, as long as they're served with mint jelly. How do you feel about Portugal?/

Olivia blinked; Alex leaned forward and kissed her.


	10. Chapter 10

Hank broke the news to people gently as he made his rounds. To the cute Gonzales twins who cashiered in the Art Center Cafeteria; to the chubby red-haired docent at the Art Barn; to his buddy Leon, the security guard.

"It's my last day—Delores will be back on Monday, bless her heart. Her sister's over the hump and on the mend."

They all told him they'd miss him; he was such a nice guy. The twins slipped him a free cupcake at break time, and he was touched by the gesture.

It seemed almost a shame to have deceived them, he regretted. Not that any of them would suffer for the charade, but still--

Hank pushed his cart one last time on the rounds through the gallery, putting an extra effort into the vacuuming and window cleaning, taking time to wipe down every surface he'd ever touched . . .

Just in case.

He hummed to himself, feeling alive and alert despite the lack of sleep. Hank didn't bother answering the cell phone when it buzzed once against his hip. Ah, so it was time.

When he reached the On Loan Gallery, he hung out the 'Closed for Cleaning' sign, then glanced at his original art, giving it a last, loving look. He'd done some nice pieces here. After some moments of reflection, Hank doused the glass wall facing the concourse with window cleaner and slowly began to wipe as he listened intently.

Footsteps. High heels and heavier men's shoes heading his way; the rumble of a cart. Hank looked up with a mild expression as the blonde beauty swept into the gallery followed by a security guard—not Leon—the clerk fellah from the gift shop, and his waspish little boss. The boss was speaking, his voice in an ingratiating whine.

" . . . Been an honor to host the exhibit, and I hope you'll pass that sentiment on to Mr. Trebor-Bassett—"

"Yes, for you it has," Hank heard the slight sneer in the woman's tone. "I saw the attendance numbers. Now, however, it's time to start packing these pieces up so they can be shipped to Montreal in time for the Governor's Cultural Fair."

"Of course—you, Eugene! Get these paintings down, and be careful!" came the order. Hank wiped harder, keeping his attention on the glass, but watching carefully out of the corner of his eye.

Any time now.

"Yes Mr. Hamm," came the meek response. Hank watched the clerk set up a stepstool from the cart and struggle to take _Sampans in Blue_ down, lifting it free of the hook on the wall. He slowly brought it to the cart. The woman reached under the frame with a pair of pliers and carefully pulled a long strip of clear plastic from the underside and held it out. The boss ran it through some sort of handheld device.

"All right, the security tape for _Sampans_ is now deactivated--" the snippy man announced a few moments later, as if he'd personally defused a bomb. The woman sniffed and crossed something off on a clipboard while the security guard and the clerk began to wrap the painting in bubble wrap.

It went on through _Notre Jeune Filles_ and _Feline Twilight_, but by the time the clerk reached for _Peach Blush no.2_, Hank saw that the snippy boss was getting impatient. He pushed the other man out of the way and climbed up the stool, grabbing for the painting himself. "Oh for God's sake, Eugene, Miss Ghirardelli doesn't have time to waste—"

A wobble, a cry; the sound of shredding canvas.

Hank wished he'd had a camera. The security one in the corner probably caught most of it, but still, the look of shock and horror on Mr. Pain in the Ass's face as he struggled to pull his arm through the now torn _Peach Blush no.2_ was worthy of _America's Funniest Home Videos._

_Maybe they ought to have one called_ _America's Most Expensive Bloopers,_ Hank pondered as he turned to the scene.

The security guard was trying to pull the man free of the canvas; the woman was shrieking and Eugene was actually cringing on the other side of the cart.

"Oh my GOD you IDIOT BASTARD! How COULD you put your damned ARM through a five hundred thousand dollar painting?!" the woman was yelling. "Jesus H. CHRIST! You and your Art Center better DAMNED well have the insurance to COVER this, Hamm, you filthy SWINE!!"

People were running across the concourse now; last minute gallery visitors, a few of the docents from the Art Barn; another security guard. The little boss man was going white as parchment, his Adam's Apple bobbing up and down even though he wasn't saying a word. The Security guard was holding the damaged painting and gawking at it, as if he'd never seen a picture with a gaping hole torn in it before.

He probably hadn't. At least, not one worth half a million dollars.

Hank moved towards the group and put a hand on the guard's arm. "'Scuse me, but your little boss there's about to faint—better if he didn't hit the picture again, you know?"

Immediately the guard let Hank take the frame and tried to catch the wobbling Mr. Hamm, but failed; Hamm collapsed, smacking the back of his head against the wobbly stepstool as he went down like a sack of knobby apples in a fancy suit. The blonde shrieked again, drawing more people towards the scene.

Hank carefully rolled the cart out of the way. He and Eugene stood by it, watching, as curators came running, and on their heels the attendant from the First Aid station. The buzz of voices, orders, shouting, comments and questions echoed in the On Loan gallery, and sighing, Hank popped a piece of gum into his mouth.

Ah well. It WAS his last day.

By the time everyone had been questioned, re-questioned and dismissed, it was well after eleven, and the twinkling lights of the Strip glittered in the distance through the glass walls. Grissom walked slowly out of the upstairs offices and to the elevator as he rubbed the back of his neck.

The long day was catching up to him, and when the elevator arrived he stepped in, not surprised to see Hank and his cart inside, seemingly waiting for him. They nodded to each other, and Grissom pushed the button for the parking garage level.

"So," he murmured.

"So," Hank echoed, letting his voice shift into his natural British accent.

"You deliberately made the stepstool tippy," Grissom sighed. "Took one of the stabilizers off."

"Yep."

"You knew Hamm would get frustrated and climb up."

"Didn't know, but theorized. Hamm is clearly a type A personality. That, combined with a frustrated libido and a need to control most situations made it easy to assume he'd try to impress Miss Ghirardelli by taking over your job."

Grissom shot a sidelong look at the older man. "You're far too cunning to be a janitor."

"Touché. You're far too ruthless and intelligent to be gift shop clerk, but in the grand scheme of life we do what must be done," Hank sighed. The elevator moved downward.

Grissom spoke again. "I saw the paperwork; the insurance forms. The painting Hamm ruined . . . it was the genuine article."

"Peach Blush number two," Hank murmured wistfully. "Inspired by a bowl of fruit picked from a little orchard near the outside of Lisbon almost ten years ago. The camera of memory has always been generous to me."

Grissom couldn't help himself. "Why? Why did you deliberately let a boor like Hamm ruin a masterpiece? You and . . . Miss Ghirardelli already made the switch, right? It's not as if you needed a distraction. I can't understand it, and that bothers me."

The elevator came to a soft stop; a chime rang out and the doors rolled open smoothly. Hank sighed. "Hamm was a bully, Eugene. Worse, he has no appreciation for art at all. How could a man work day after day in such a magnificent setting and never glory in what was under his nose, within his reach? Degas. Magritte, O'Keefe, Pollock, Rubens, Rothko, Turner, Dali, Rivera, a thousand more, all dear and precious, all windows into a greater collective consciousness, all gifts of God. Hamm never bothered opening his eyes to more than the financial aspect of art, so I made sure he'd certainly be forever reminded of it."

Stunned, Grissom stared. Hank solemnly winked. "Besides, the insurance settlement will come in handily. I've been considering a trip."

"So you really are . . . Milo Trebor-Bassett?" Grissom gawked. Hank gave a shrug.

"Sometimes."

"—But . . . " at a loss, Grissom followed the spry little janitor out, trailing behind him and the cart like a duckling. Hank rolled the cart to a cleaning closet and pulled at his key ring, unlocking the door.

"But what am I doing in cahoots with Miss Ghirardelli, and what possible benefit is it to me—is that what you were going to ask?"

Grissom scowled. "In a nutshell, yes."

Hank pushed open the door. "Wouldn't you rather hear about how I managed to move a Certain Item without anyone the wiser?"

"That too," Grissom admitted. "If she had you, why was I even around in the first place?"

Hank shot him an affectionate glance. "You're my alibi and I'm yours, young man. Besides, I have it on the best authority that you're cool under fire and have a talent at improvisation—had things gone awry, I suspect Miss Ghirardelli was counting on you to lend a hand."

Slightly mollified, Grissom leaned against the door and crossed his arms. Hank began pulling bottles of cleaner off the cart and replacing them on the shelves of the closet. After a moment, Grissom cleared his throat. Hank glanced at him. "Yes?"

"The switch?"

"Ah that—well, I had three obstacles to overcome: cameras, schedules and Fortress. The cameras were the first, and the easiest. When I was hired, I was required to take a tour of the place, and saw the video surveillance room. I noted that the cameras for my particular area of interest were on a three minute timer, so once I figured out when the camera was off, that helped considerably."

Grissom nodded, and moved to help the older man move some of the buckets and cleaning rags. "Clever."

"Thank you, but it's not much. Then I had to establish a routine, and take note of other people's routines. I'd already visited the Gallery for a week before I was hired, so that gave me a leg up on what the day shift was like, in particular the guards and the gift shop staff. I needed to know when folks went on break and who and where their friends were. It didn't take long to learn that Leon takes his break around the half hour mark and tends to straggle back a few minutes late, especially if Ruthie Thy is working the membership booth—little things like that."

Nodding, Grissom grinned, aware that he knew this as well—he'd observed as much himself. "And the security measure? That's not common knowledge, even for the upper management staff. I only knew about it because of Miss Cho, er, Miss Ghirardelli."

Hank looked at him keenly. "Ah yes, Fortress—a thin plastic tape with a computer chip embedded in it with the identification number of the painting. Designed to trip the silent alarms if it passes through the electronic sensors along both the gallery doorway and the main doorways of the Center. On the back of every painting here, and touted as being undetectable—in theory. A clever system for the most part."

"Yeah. So you're telling me you knew about it and just neutralized it?" Grissom asked.

Hank shook his head. "Yes I knew about it, and no, I simply transferred it on the replacement. Some window cleaner to loosen it from the frame of the original, then some cyanoacrylate to reapply it to the duplicate. Takes less than two minutes to do."

"But—" Grissom objected softly, putting the last of the dust mops away, "there's still the little matter of a damned large painting. A Certain Item is about two feet high and four feet wide, and that's without the ornate frame."

Hank gave a soft laugh, and rested his hands on the stainless steel cart, spreading his fingers over the rubber mat on the surface. "Yes, twenty-four by forty-eight inches. An interesting size—roughly that of a tea tray back where I come from. In fact, just about the same surface area of the average cleaning cart."

Grissom blinked. He looked at the cart, and lifted a corner of the rubber mat on it. Nothing. He looked on the bottom shelf and lifted the mat there. Nothing. He looked up at Hank, who winked.

Concentrating, Grissom studied the cart again, and noted the two inch overhang all around it. Reaching under, he slid his fingers around the surface and glanced up at Hank. "Velcro."

"Indeed. If a certain unscrupulous person slipped a Certain Item into a form-fitting bag of cushioning fluffy loop material, and firmly pressed it to the underside of the cart--" the older man murmured, "--Then that innocuous, slow-moving employee could in theory walk around all day with much more than he should have on his cart, and it would be out of sight and safe for as long as he wanted it to be."

Grissom slowly shook his head, impressed. "So simple."

"Overlooked, as it were." Hank agreed. "Which is what makes it effective. Most thieves and forgers depend too much on complicated plans and risky plots. All a matter of simplicity."

Both men gave a little sigh, and then Hank cautiously reached under and tugged, peeling away the Velcro panels. Grissom helped him, and together they stuffed them into the two bags of garbage sitting on the floor. Hank neatly tied the bags up, and rolled the cart deeper into the closet.

He locked the door and hefted the bags, smiling at Grissom "Come on, then—my last trip to the dust bin. I'll be back tomorrow to turn in my keys and badge and fill in whatever release paperwork the bureaucrats insist on. Been an interesting time I will admit. I've enjoyed the opportunity to see the Mali exhibit up close. Beautiful pottery you know."

"I know," Grissom agreed, and then paused, stricken. He stared at Hank, who gave a sigh, even through the quirked corner of his mouth.

"Yes, I painted _Composition in Chocolate_, and yes I did see her nude. She'd commissioned me to do it for you several weeks ago."

Grissom's brows dropped, and he scowled. Hank rolled his eyes, and hefted one of the trash bags. "Spare me, Eugene—my affections reside with another. And in any case, I'm not about to make advances on a member of my own family, lovely as she is."

"Family?" Grissom echoed, the other trash bag nearly slipping from his fingers. Hank unlocked the door marked FIRE EXIT and held it open. It led to an outside alley, dark and quiet.

"Oh yes—my niece in fact. Come along—" So saying, Hank strolled out and heaved the sack of trash over the side of the dumpster at the end of the narrow alley. Grissom followed him, copying the gesture.

Hank sighed. "Did you know this is the only door to the Las Vegas Center for the Arts that doesn't have a security camera? And that it doesn't have one because it kept getting knocked off the wall by the garbage truck? It's amazing what a little chat with the sanitation people will tell you."

Grissom slowly nodded. "I'm beginning to see where Miss Ghirardelli gets her streak of cunning from."

Hank waved modestly. "Tut, hardly. I've got the advantage of fitting in and asking a few questions. She's the true chameleon."

"Of that," Grissom smiled, "I'm becoming aware, yes."

Sara undid the package carefully, concentrating on cutting the tape. On the other side of the table, Miss Lollipop and a small woman stood watching, both quietly intent. Sara pulled open the top of the wrapping and reached in, hooking her fingers around the frame there. She tugged, and gently the painting slid out onto the conference room table, incongruous, but undeniably beautiful in the florescent lighting.

The little woman next to Miss Lollipop gave a gasp. "Oh you did it! How good it is to have faith in those who do right! Thank you! Thank you!"

Her heartfelt words echoed out, and she reached out a slightly gnarled hand to the painting, her finger touching the ornate frame as she spoke again. "The taller shepherd, the one here on the left . . . he's my ancestor, Paolo Macchena. Battaglia knew him, and used him as a guide when looking for landscapes. This painting was a gift to the family for my ancestor's saint day. . . it will be good to have it back in a place of honor in my house. Thank you for believing in the rightness of my claim, Miss Marazek."

Miss Lollipop tipped her head towards Sara. "The credit belongs to Miss Chocolate and her team. And one of them has procured this--" She held out a manila envelope. The old woman took it and opened it, looking at the thick sheaf of papers with growing astonishment.

"A provenance!"

"Yeah," Sara broke in gently. "A chain of documentation for the ownership of _Two Shepherds_, culled from the church records of Milan all the way through the Nazi confiscation and the subsequent resale to two or three art houses and private buyers, but the start of the record is clearly the Macchena family. It's irrefutable, and registered now with Sotheby's catalogs."

The old woman looked up at both woman, her eyes bright with tears. "Blessings on you both, and those you love—I will never forget this deed."

"You're welcome," Miss Lollipop assured her.

After Ms Machina was escorted out, along with her precious painting, Miss Lollipop looked at Miss Chocolate and managed a wry smile. "Nicely done, with no bloodshed or undue expenses. I approve."

"Thanks," Miss Chocolate murmured. "I had a good team."

"Yes. Although . . . " Miss Lollipop sighed, " . . . working with an outside rogue agent does occasionally present a problem. It's nearly three o'clock, Miss Chocolate. Do you know where your uncle is?"


	11. Chapter 11

Mesa Mall was a two level shopping mall that served the needs of the three nearby communities on the outskirts of the city limits of Las Vegas. It was the oldest mall, and usually the first that local residents thought of when considering new shoes, outlet fashions, trendy cell phones or last minute birthday presents. There were shops galore, and a food court, several kiosks and a movie theater at the far end.

It also had a poster and lithograph shop—Wall Hangers. The little shop was the first one on the north side, a long shop with frames, posters, prints and art touches all along its interior walls. A lot of customers came in to browse the collection, or buy frames.

At the moment, only two people were in the shop: Edwin Donavon, the owner of Wall Hangers, and one customer, who was looking at a print of a seascape. The man was spry and bright-eyed, carrying a small bag in his hand; Edwin had been watching him for a while, torn between urging the guy to buy something already, and just letting him browse a while longer.

His phone rang, and he answered it with a sigh. "Wall Hangers of Mesa Mall."

"Ed Donovan? I have thirty packages from Fed Ex down here at Receiving that you need to sign for," came a slightly bored voice.

Ed glanced at his watch in irritation. "Right now?"

"Look pal, I'm doing you a favor by calling—I SHOULD be on my break, but I can't go until you get down here and sign for these things," came the slightly bored, cranky voice.

"I can't leave—can't you just send the guy up?" Ed pleaded, glancing around. Sure it was slow, but he still had a customer—

The old man began walking out the door, and Ed gave a harsh sigh. "Hang on—never mind. Fine. I'll close up for a few minutes and be right down."

"Good." The line went dead in his hand and Ed Donovan shook his head, wondering at the manners of the younger generation. In HIS day clerks were taught to use 'hello' and 'goodbye' and 'thank you' on a regular basis. Sighing, he gently circled the shop, locking up the register and the glass doors before he made his way to the service elevator.

A few moments later, the old man wandered back, and inserted a key in the lock, opening it. He stepped inside and turned on the lights; within a few minutes, Wall Hangers was open for business again.

00oo00oo00

Sara stood in the outside parking lot, pretending to dig through her purse for something and swiftly scanned the surroundings. The place was quiet, with only a few people coming out of the mall, but she remained alert, looking carefully at the cars and buildings. She spoke softly, letting her voice reach the earpiece under her hair. "Are you sure Alex?"

"Sara, it's his MO. Don't tell me you folk at that Shop of yours haven't studied the man and his methods."

She grimaced. "We um, haven't had much of a reason to follow him lately, Alex. Particularly since he's been laying low for the last few months."

"Nonsense. The man's been active all this time and you know it. He's determined to collect the paintings and kill me in the process; we both knew that going into this scheme, Sara," came the soft chide.

She sighed. "I don't see anything out here, Alex. No suspicious cars, no vans or trucks, nothing like that."

"Keep your eyes open my dear. He's ruthless."

"I know," Sara agreed, feeling another surge of frustration. She moved along the rows of cars, carrying a shopping bag and trying to blend in, keeping on the move. She was uneasy for more reasons than simply Bruce Eiger, and her stomach roiled a bit with more acid than usual as she thought back to the last moments she'd had with her lover.

The ring.

The ring had been perfect. A two carat brown diamond in a platinum setting nestled in a red and white leather box, all of it enough to leave her speechless and half-dressed on the sofa as he took the gem and slid it onto her unresisting hand.

God.

Engaged!

She'd taken it off before meeting with Miss Lollipop and the client, keeping it tucked in her pocket, her fingers constantly straying to it all through the conversation. Sara had slipped it back on the minute she'd left the Truman Tower, aware of the heft of it on her finger.

A brown diamond and Grissom's words echoing in her head.

"_Be mine, as I am yours, Sara."_

It was all she could do not to run, to skim over the surface of the parking lot. Sara wasn't sure if she was running from or running to, but she felt weightless and the sensation was as lovely as it was disorienting. Forcing herself to concentrate, Sara turned her attention back to the parking lot, hoping to spot something to justify the jumpiness in her entire system.

00oo00oo00

Eiger and his bodyguard walked into Wall Hangers at precisely three o'clock, the two of them coming from the mall side and moving along the walkways like sharks. Instinctively people shifted out of their way, and Bruce loved the feeling of power it gave him to see it happen. He glanced at the giant beside him and spoke in a low voice.

"Two, and only on my signal. I need to be sure I get everything I came for, got it, Will?"

"Got it," the mountain rumbled back. Will Offinski AKA Will Do, killer for hire was pricey, but he came with a good reputation, and Eiger hadn't minded the extra expense, not when the old man had already been difficult enough to deal with. They turned a corner and headed towards Wall Hangers together.

In the shop, Alex drew in a deep breath and tried to relax, although it was proving tough to do. He checked his watch, and looked up just in time to see Eiger and his goon come into Wall Hangers. The goon followed Eiger in, then stood just inside the glass doors, his very presence a deterrent to anyone who might have contemplated coming in. Eiger moved towards the long back counter of the shop, his expression carefully neutral.

"Art swap at an art shop. Clever. Where are the paintings?"

"Charming to see you too, Mr. Eiger," Alex commented quietly, his hands on the counter. "I take it you have the money?"

"Check your account—" Eiger told him heavily. Alex smiled his curt, cold smile and pulled a cell phone out from under the counter. He hit a button and listened carefully to the ID prompts, then entered them and listened further as a voice in French confirmed the amount being held in transit. Alex nodded, and clicked the phone off.

"Very good. Now all we need to do is wait the required twenty-four hours and our business will be complete."

Bruce seemed to consider this, then shook his head. "Nah, I'm an impatient sort of guy. I'd rather have my paintings now."

"That's not our agreement," Alex protested, flexing his hands. He knew the goon would move, but he wasn't prepared for how fast the big man was, or how silent. Alex found himself being hauled over the top of the counter, and squawked.

The bodyguard produced a switchblade. He stood with his back to the glass doors of the shop, confident that his bulk would block any view of the glittering blade. "Mr. Eiger would like his paintings. Now."

"We're in a public shop!" Alex hissed. "There are security cameras all along the hallways and in the parking lot!"

"True, but none here in this store. Mr. Eiger and I are both wearing dark suits and latex gloves, so I doubt any blood will show up even if we ARE caught on tape, and by the time anybody comes to find you, you'll be dead," the bodyguard pointed out. "Don't risk it, old man. Just tell us where the paintings are."

Alex's gaze flicked to the bin of framed paintings along one wall; a quick little betrayal as he swallowed hard. Eiger smiled, and snapped his fingers. As the bodyguard proceeded to stab the old man in the stomach with two quick, brutal jabs, Eiger sauntered over to the bin and leisurely began to flip through the artwork stored there, six paintings in, he found _Two Shepherds of Verona_, and behind it, _Quiet Waters of Calais. _Ignoring the anguished moaning and thump of a dropped body behind the counter, Bruce pulled the oil paintings out of the bin and studied them.

He touched their signatures, studied their frames, checked the texture of the brushstrokes and noted the tiny filament tape on the back of each one. His smile grew wide. Reverently, Eiger leaned both masterpieces against the wall as he snapped his fingers again.

The bodyguard helped Eiger wrap both paintings in bubble wrap before tucking them into a large plastic Wall Hangers bag; the entire operation had taken less than fifteen minutes, and they'd stepped around Alex's crumpled form several times to do it. Blood was already staining the carpet, and when Eiger and his bodyguard left, they took the doors out of the mall into the parking lot, stepping out just as a large black limo pulled up to the doors.

The car pulled away, and for a while, nothing more happened.

00oo00oo00

Grissom answered his phone and noted a text message from his mother; her dinner invitation took him a little by surprise, but when she extended it to YR QT GF, he arched an eyebrow, amused. Clearly Maynard had helped his mother figure out some of the Text message shortcuts, and the thought alarmed him slightly as he pictured his mother tapping out abbreviated vulgarities on a regular basis.

He wasn't ready for an eighty-something with any more attitude than she already had, thank you.

Grissom dialed another number first, and it rang a few times before a slightly breathless voice answered. "Hel-lo, Gilbert."

"Engagement becomes you," he replied warmly. "How do you feel about having dinner with my mother tonight?"

"Just me, or will you be there too?" came the cheeky question, and he smiled.

"Oh my attendance is probably a good idea, given that the menu will consist of grilled son with buttered fiancée, followed by angel wedding cake."

Her laugh, husky and sweet, made his grin widen. "Are you sure that wouldn't be buttered son and grilled fiancée?"

"Trust me, she's going to have me over the coals while sprinkling you with so much sugar you'll develop diabetes. Brace yourself for the issue of children because she'll bring it up before we even look at the menu."

"Babies?" Sara groaned. "Can you picture one of those on the _Bohemian?_"

Grissom could, actually, but gave a gentle laugh. "Completely your choice—I'm willing to follow your lead on this issue, but don't let my mother bully. After all, she's already got grandchildren if you count William and Maynard."

"Maynard counts for at least two, maybe two and a half," Sara agreed. "And William is the poster boy for adorability."

"I love you," he blurted, feeling so happy he was slightly dizzy with it. "So much it almost hurts."

"And I," she replied quickly, her voice soft and urgent, "Haven't touched the ground in a few days. We are completely sickening, Eugene. Utterly saccharine."

"I think it's more properly defined as happy, Frango—So it's a yes for dinner tonight at the Neon Cactus, eight o'clock?"

"Perfect. And if we have a moment afterwards--" she breathed.

Grissom sighed with anticipation. "We'll . . . debrief?"

"Mmmmm. But not in the way you're thinking," Sara sighed. "Just hope to wrap up the last of this Art thing once my uncle checks in."

"Understood. And I hope you'll be wearing something in chocolate," Grissom murmured. At the other end of the line, Sara chuckled warmly.

"Oh I think your mother will notice the chunk of real estate on my hand, yeah. Eight o'clock it is."

00oo00oo00

The moon had begun to rise low in the eastern skies, a round disc on the horizon above the hills. David Phillips hurried through the parking garage, checking his watch and wishing he'd paid more attention to the time. He dug in his pocket for his keys, feeling the slow ice begin to move within his veins, and praying he could make it home. If not, he'd have to point the car out towards the fifteen and hope for an exit on some lonely frontage road.

He hated this part of his life, he really did. Fortunately, when he'd filled out all the medical questions on the intake for the Shop, none of them had even come close to mentioning his syndrome, and he'd spent so many years dealing with it on his own that he hadn't bothered to add it under "Pre-existing Conditions."

It wasn't a problem, really—just a monthly inconvenience, like women had.

Well, maybe more than that, David acknowledged as he climbed into his car and started it. Most women had prescriptions or over the counter medications they could use to cope with their discomfort. Most women didn't have to worry about lost clothing, or shotgun pellets or the rank taste of day-old sheep, either.

David sighed, and pulled out of the garage, feeling his anxiety grow. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and drove faster.

00oo00oo00

Bruce Eiger smiled at the four walls of his study, feeling a sense of power as he surveyed his collection. Four indisputable masterpieces, making this room alone worth over thirty million dollars.

He had a boner.

Grinning, Bruce glanced one last time around the room, then slowly began to take off his clothes, draping them neatly over his desk. Jacket, vest, shirt, trousers . . . leaving him standing in a huge diaper and his dress socks and shoes.

"Fuck, life is good!" he yelled happily. Bruce then shucked off his Florsheims, peeled off his socks, dropped to his hands and knees, and crawled, like the good baby he was, towards his nursery.

Mommy would be coming to play with him soon, and Baby Brucie could hardly WAIT.

The panel in the wall opened, and the lumbering man-baby hunkered his way through, a pink hairy rhino in a humongous pair of Huggies.

For a long while, the study was quiet, and the only sounds came from the passageway to the nursery; echoes of music box tunes.

At precisely eight o'clock, an electromagnetic pulse reached the Eiger mansion, and promptly overloaded the circuitry on the Fortress filament tape on the backs of _Two Shepherds on the Hills of Verona _and _Quiet Waters of Calais. _Both paintings burst into flames, fueled by the oil of the paint and the wood of their frames. The fire spread rapidly, moving up the wood paneled walls and along the Berber carpet on the floor, engulfing the study within twenty minutes.

Smoke detectors went off at various points in the mansion, and a scurry of activity echoed in the passageway to the nursery, but the flames in the study were too hot, and thick, acrid smoke filled every space that wasn't actively burning.

There were no other exits or entries to the nursery.

00oo00oo00

The patio table overlooked a collection of potted cactus, artfully displayed. Grissom tried to calm his mother down, amused at her degree of agitation. /Mom, relax. It's still early. We're early./

/No, I'm not worried about your guest, dear, but mine./

/Yours?/ Grissom signed, alert now, and puzzled. /You invited someone else to this dinner?/

His mother looked both chagrined and resolute. /Yes. Someone you truly do need to meet, Gil. He's as important to me as your Sara is to you./

Annoyance flared up on Grissom's face and he glared at his mother. /I really don't know what to say, mom. This is very likely the most important dinner of my life, and you're inviting a stranger to sit in on it. I'm not very happy right now./ he signed, his fingers moving curtly.

Olivia lifted her pretty cleft chin and met her son's sharp gaze with one of her own. /Oh yeah? Well considering you got engaged before I even had a chance to MEET your sweetheart--/

Grissom's mouth twisted; she had him there, but that wasn't the point. He was about to sign something he probably would have regretted when someone approached the table.

"We meet again," came a familiar voice, although weak, and Grissom looked up into the face of the man he'd known as Hank Pettigrew. Stunned, Grissom blinked as the man turned his gaze to Olivia, and smiled. His fingers moved slowly. /Darling. I told you I would make it./

"Hank?"

/Alex!/

The wail of a siren cut through the conversation; three engines raced by along the street outside the restaurant, followed by an ambulance.


	12. Chapter 12

For a long moment Grissom felt absurd in the staring stand-off with the person standing in front of the table. He hesitated, his gaze moving from the man to his mother and back again, trying desperately to understand this unexpected connection.

The other man swayed a little, pressing a hand to his stomach. "May I sit down, please?" he murmured. Grissom nodded, and Alex took the chair closest to Olivia, moving slowly. She reached out to touch his brown, her expression concerned.

Grissom felt an odd pang of jealousy. He signed, /Mom? Tell me what the hell is going on./

"It's a long story." Alex murmured, and startled, Grissom realized the man had understood his question. Olivia was holding out a glass of ice water; Grissom watched him drink thirstily.

"I've got time," came the hard, quiet reply. "And I think I can fill in a few blanks, but I'd like the whole saga."

"Where's Sara?" Alex asked absently, smiling at Olivia, who patted his hand.

"Coming," came the short response. Alex looked over at Grissom fully for the first time, and each man keenly assessed the other over the table.

"You look bad. You're hurt," Grissom pointed out. Alex shot him a warning glance, then looked to Olivia, who was signing frantically now.

/Alex! What's wrong?/

"I'm fine," the older man repeated testily. "Just a flesh wound. Have you all ordered yet? Because I could definitely use a good glass of port at the moment."

Grissom hesitated, then looked around for the waiter. Olivia's fingers flashed quickly. /Alex, you're hurt, and from the look of you, you're not going to make it through dinner./

/I . . . I may have to cut the evening short, / came the slower signs back. /But I promised I'd be here, darling./

Grissom had flagged a waiter and tersely ordered drinks, now he turned back to Alex. "Done. So let me get this straight—your niece is my fiancée?"

/Your Sara is Alex's Sara?/ Olivia signed, her bright eyes narrowing as she tried to put this new information together.

Alex gave a sigh and caught Olivia's fluttering hands with his own, larger ones as he faced her. "Dear heart, apparently yes. My niece seems to be your son's beloved. Not something I'd thought probable, but apparently the long shot odds of Vegas apply to situations like this."

Grissom blinked, realizing the implications in a rush of surprise. If he married Sara, then he'd be related to Alex. Not necessarily a bad thing there, since he respected the man. On the other hand, given the way his mother was gripping Alex's hands—

"And how long have YOU two been cozy?"

Before anyone could begin to reply, a soft voice broke into silence. "Sorry I'm late--"

Tall, slightly flushed, bright-eyed, Sara stood there in a neat Chanel suit of nubbly cream linen. She looked from face to face, and when she reached her uncle, her eyes narrowed; moving quickly she reached out for him. "You're hurt. Damn it! Alex, you said it would be a piece of cake!"

"And it was," Alex grumbled, gripping her hand. "I'm going to be fine, Sara. So let's see this impressive bit of stone your fine young gentleman has graced you with . . . . oh very nice!"

"Alex—" Sara grumbled, but shot patient looks at Grissom and his mother. Olivia looked back at Sara with undisguised delight, eyes bright. Sara pulled her fingers away from her uncle and slowly, clumsily signed.

/I am pleased to meet you/ came the hesitant gestures.

Olivia's smile grew, and she spoke softly, but clearly. "An I am peased to mee' you too, Tair-a."

Grissom looked at Sara, his eyes wide and soft for a moment; she blushed under his stare and moved to sit next to him at the table.

For a moment the four of them said nothing, and then Alex winced.

Grissom leaned over the table. "Spill it, Hank, Alex, whatever you true name is."

Alex looked back, managing a wry grin as he nodded. "Oh very well. I may have to make this a bit short, but you'll get the gist of it soon enough. The story begins roughly forty two years ago, when you were ten years old, Mr. Grissom. We first met back then, although I'm fairly sure you don't remember me at all."

Grissom shot a surprised look at his mother, who nodded. /True, Gil./

"Your mother was having a difficult time in the mid-Sixties. Art was still very much an Old Boy network especially in Chicago, and your father hadn't left you two very much when he died. Your mother had been forced to do some unsavory things—" Alex sighed. "And one of them was . . . forgery."

Grissom went pale. "Mom?"

Olivia Grissom bit her lips, eyes bright for a moment, then she slowly nodded, her fingers moving in quick, almost desperate signs. /I'm sorry honey but it's true. I was doing fake Mondrians—his later period stuff. They went for four or five hundred a pop./

"What? What did she say?" Sara asked, watching Olivia's hands.

Grissom sighed. "My mother is confessing to being a crook."

"No!" Sara replied, stunned. Olivia's fingers moved again as she lifted her chin and looked slightly defiant.

/It's true. In nineteen sixty-six I had a ten-year old child to clothe and feed. I had a damned Art degree, and nobody in all of Chicago would hire me, a deaf woman, at a wage good enough to keep us both in food and clothing, so I agreed to do some less-than-honest reproductions for the money. I was good, too—a few of them are still out there./

"Indeed," Alex agreed fondly. "You were amazingly good with cubist and modern styles, my love. Most of my colleagues still can't tell one of your Jackson Pollocks from the real thing. I digress, however—the point is that your beautiful mother was working with a group of unscrupulous dealers who were exploiting her talent and underpaying her for it as well. When one of the faux Mondrians showed up in Britain, I was dispatched to investigate."

"You're a policeman?" Grissom demanded, his eyebrows going up.

Alex shook his head. "No, at the time, I was a patron of and docent for the National Gallery, specializing in Renaissance Art. The Moderns weren't my specialty, but I volunteered to investigate and made the trip to Chicago for just that purpose. I met your mother, fell rather seriously in love with her, and--"

"--Pound out I wat a porger," Olivia confessed sadly. Alex turned to smile at her; a look of such intimate good humor that both Grissom and Sara blinked.

"Now, now my love—what's a relationship without a few rocky bits, eh? Your situation was borne of necessity, not greed, unlike your colleagues."

Grissom blinked. "My mother. My good, sweet, virtuous mother. An art forger."

"I topped!" Olivia protested indignantly. "I o-nee did it fo two yea, Giw!"

"Two years!"

"Gil—" Sara put a hand on his arm in an effort to calm him.

"She quit of her own volition, and I made sure that she was never implicated at all in the case," Alex replied quietly. "And as far as I can tell, your mother has never again practiced artistic deception."

"Thank God for small favors," Grissom murmured, but his mouth curved into a reluctant smile as he studied his mother once more. "Boy, you think you know a parent—"

Olivia tried to smile back, but it was a tremulous affair, and she reached for Alex's hand. He took hers again and stroked it tenderly.

"My God," Sara spoke up suddenly, her intense gaze on her uncle. "You took the rap for her."

No one spoke for a long moment. Alex's gaze was sharp and uncompromising. "Sara—" he warned.

But Olivia was staring now, her blue eyes big and startled; she pulled her fingers from his and rapidly signed. /Is this true?/

Alex took a breath; it was a mistake, and he leaned forward, pressing a hand to his stomach. Instantly both Olivia and Sara moved to him, gripping his shoulders. Grissom rose up, dropping his napkin on the table. "We're taking him to the hospital. Now."

00oo00oo00

Catherine looked across the kitchen table at Mike TeeVee and felt a tremble along her spine. He was eating an In and Out burger in methodical bites, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his big frame settled into the chair opposite her.

They'd had dinner twice now at his hotel kitchenette; he was leaving tomorrow for Washington DC, and Catherine found herself unhappy with that thought.

Sure, part of it was animal attraction, she knew. Mike was just the sort she'd always had a weakness for—big and lanky. But another part of it was the anticipated loss of . . . his company. His wit, his patience, his simple presence. In the time they'd spent together working through her addiction, Catherine had come to realize what sort of a quirky, lonely soul Mike was, and further, that she liked it.

Liked him.

A lot.

He'd seen her through the worse of her drugged state, had vouched for her as a potential agent, and once upon a time he'd kissed her. She hadn't forgotten any of that, and the awareness that his plane was due to leave in sixteen hours left her melancholy already.

"S'matter? Your food okay?" he interrupted her thoughts in a low rumble. Catherine looked down at her fries for a moment.

"It's fine. I'm just not as hungry as I thought."

"Oh."

She cocked her head, looking at him intently. Feeling slightly self-conscious about her scrutiny, Mike arched an eyebrow. "What? Have I got catsup on my chin?"

"Nope. Just wondering."

He swallowed another bite and spoke again. "About what?"

"About what to make us for breakfast," she replied softly.

It was worth it to see him tense and go wide-eyed, his expression caught between surprise and delight. Coughing, he reached for a napkin to buy time, and Catherine slipped out of her chair, moving towards him. Mike looked up at her. "Catherine--" he mumbled, wiping his mouth. "I—"

"Look, I don't know when I'm going to see you again, and I'm not asking for anything more than tonight right now," she told him gently, trying not to let her voice shake. "But damn it, Mike, you mean a hell of a lot to me, and one way or another, I intend to make sure you know it."

He rose up from his chair, stretching up, tall; towering over her. Catherine tipped her head back to meet his eyes, and he slid his arms around her, pulling her to him. She held her breath as he lowered his face to hers. "I know it now," Mike whispered, and kissed her.

It started soft, a little mutual slide of lips to lips in a sweet touch of mouths, but in a spark of simultaneous heat, both Mike and Catherine shifted it into something deeper. A quick sigh passed from her to him, and suddenly their tongues were flicking against each other, sensuously, slowly.

Catherine gurgled, a rush of delighted lust flooding her senses. She broke away from the kiss, her voice husky. "You taste like In and Out—"

The look Mike gave her was priceless; a slow smoldering grin that had her blushing. He sighed, his grin crooked. "That was a pretty smutty for an innocuous comment."

"Maybe I wasn't talking about the burger," Catherine replied, and pulled him into another deep, wet kiss.

00oo00oo00

Doctor Graff was on call; he looked up from the paperback thriller he'd been reading and came over to the four people in the clinic doorway, speaking quietly to the receptionist who was hovering behind her counter. "It's all right, Marie; I'll do the intake on this one."

For a moment the receptionist hesitated, but Graff nodded to Grissom and motioned to the second exam room, moving to the other side of the pale elderly gentleman in the process. They all went into the room, and shrugging, Marie returned to her billing work.

Once inside, Doctor Graff looked at Grissom, and then the two women. Grissom hesitated, and then spoke softly. "Shop business."

"I figured as much," Graff grumbled a bit. "It's the only time I ever see you. What have we got?" He turned his attention to the elderly man, motioning for him to sit on the exam table.

The man shook his head. "Sorry, but I don't think I can . . . it's too painful--"

"Abdomen," Grissom commented. "He wouldn't tell us—"

"—off with the shirt, sir—" Graff ordered in a gentle voice. "I can't treat what I can't see."

Sara stood with Olivia in one corner, near the cabinets. Both women were quiet and watchful. Grissom helped undo Alex's shirt buttons even as the man protested slightly. The tie and shirt came off, revealing a bulky undershirt; one too bulky for Alex's slight frame. Graff lifted the undershirt to find thick gauze padding taped down, and blood leaking through it.

"This is going to have to come off too—what happened?" came his question. Alex winced as Grissom and Graff tugged on the tape holding the dressing in place.

"I was . . . stabbed, a little bit."

"Wha? Wha?" Olivia demanded, fretting at not being able to see Alex's lips.

He turned to her and made a few hand signs. /I'm going to be FINE, my love./

Alex's white-furred, rangy chest was pale, but remarkably fit for a man his age. There were two bruised and leaking gashes just above his navel, each about an inch long. Grissom winced, and Sara found herself trying to hold back Olivia, who twisted free.

"Alec!" she blurted, eyes wide. Doctor Graff frowned a little, and the look he turned to Olivia hushed her. He used the edge of the pad to wipe some of the leaking blood.

"You need stitches to close these up; every step or turn of your upper body is opening the wounds and that's why they haven't stopped flowing. We can do this right here, if certain folks will back up a bit and give me some room."

Grissom signed the information to his mother; she helped to shift Alex until he was lying on the exam table, and held his hand. Sara moved over to Grissom, sliding an arm around him, but her eyes were on the man on the table even as she spoke. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

He gave her a sidelong glance. "Mind filling me in?" Grissom's words were soft but his expression was slightly flinty, and Sara scowled in return. Before she spoke, Alex did, from the table.

"Tush, Eugene—the girl merely followed MY suggestion on this . . . venture and I absolve her of any culpability for this unfortunate result. Ow." This last was to Doctor Graff, who was swabbing down the wounds with betadine.

"Are you allergic to any medications? Any pre-existing conditions I need to know about," Doctor Graff rattled off quietly as he pulled out a sterile suture kit from one of the drawers in the exam room.

"No, and no," came the calm reply.

Sara half-turned to Grissom, her voice a sotto whisper. "Alex was supposed to make the trade of payment for paintings in a public place just so he wouldn't get hurt! The point was to have . . ." she shot a cautious glance a Doctor Graff, "--our client take the merchandise home."

"Did he?"

"He did," Sara replied. "But I had no idea about this!"

"Public venue," came Alex's voice. Doctor Graff was numbing the gashes now, and Olivia had a tight grip on one of the patient's hands. "I knew our target wouldn't risk gunfire, so it was going to be a knife. I padded myself, but not quite enough, clearly."

"Clearly," Grissom echoed dryly. "You took a hell of a risk."

"Comes with the job," Alex pointed out with quiet stubbornness. "You can't honestly believe that the person in question was going to let me live."

"Sometimes," Sara broke in sternly, "I don't know what to believe."

"I am so with you there, lady," Doctor Graff muttered, working on the stitches adding, "Damned Candy Shop."

00oo00oo00

Grissom poured more wine. Sara picked up her glass and stared into the depths of the chardonnay, sighing deeply as she spoke.

"So. Your mother and my uncle meet nearly forty years ago and fall in madly in love. In a gallant gesture, my uncle confesses—falsely—to forging the art that she was responsible for, and is given a seven-year prison sentence for it in England. He's released early for good behavior and has his passport restricted then ends up working for the National Trust as an in-house expert, and gradually ends up forging for them on a hush-hush secret basis."

"Meanwhile, half a world away, my mother tries to find Alex for . . . years," Grissom murmured thoughtfully, "And eventually gives up. She leaves Chicago for California, pulls together enough capital to start an art gallery and keeps her broken heart to herself."

"Until—" Sara prompted, smiling a little for the first time.

"—Until you call your uncle and discreetly mention a scam to him. He agrees to help, and in one trick of Fate runs into my mother at the Manly Hammers garden center."

"Wet. Both of them," Sara sighed, remembering. "They must have been sneaking out on us after that, meeting up and making their own plans. You just can't trust anyone over seventy, I swear."

Grissom smiled. They were on the _Bohemian,_ cuddled together on the bow, their backs against the railing. In front of them sat the bottle of wine. The night was cool, but the sky clear and the brilliance of the starlight shone on the rippling water of Lake Mead.

"So all that talk about New Zealand was a ruse? No sheep station down under?" Grissom asked.

Sara nodded. "Completely, Mr. Peppermint. My devious uncle was going to take Olivia with him to Portugal using some of the insurance money from the Trebor-Bassett case."

"That's rather romantic in a cunning, wily, underhanded way, actually," Grissom admitted. "I'd approve, if it didn't involve my mother."

"What? My uncle's not good enough for your mom? He did time for her you know—" Sara bristled gently. Grissom tightened his arm around her and kissed her nose.

"Alex may be TOO good for a manipulative, bossy control-freak like my mom."

"Yeah, well like mother like son—" Sara murmured under her breath. Grissom shot her a dry look, but he couldn't keep it up, and a soft smile crossed his features.

"You love me anyway, Frango, so suck it up. If our relatives beat us to the punch altar-wise, we'll be related in some odd way, won't we?"

"Yes, we'll be the terminally embarrassed younger generation of a pair of horny seniors. I saw the way your mom was making goo-goo eyes at Uncle Alex."

Grissom gave a shrug. "And he grabbed her ass—they're both guilty."

They were both silent for a long moment, savoring the starlight and the peace. Sara finally let her head rest on his shoulder. "Do you think--" she began softly.

"Yes. Yes, we are going to be just like them when we reach that age," he told her in complete confidence.

Sara laughed, and lifted her mouth for a kiss.

_(Thanks so much for reading! Candy Shop is going on a month-long hiatus and will return in June with __Candy Shop:Moonglow. __I hope you'll be back for that!)_


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